


fuck fake friends

by resurrectdead



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bad Jokes, Bittersweet, Denial of Feelings, Friendship/Love, Jealousy, Just Friends, M/M, Past, Sad and Happy, Slow Burn, Smut, and occassionally they're extremely bad friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectdead/pseuds/resurrectdead
Summary: It’s better to just stay away. So he does. He tries his very best to.It’s just weird when you can’t be happy for someone. When you can’t encourage their achievements anymore, because they did it alone or with someone else, when it was supposed to be with you.Harry was supposed to always be with Louis.or: if you love someone, set them free. if they don't come back, text them when you're drunk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oi oi!!! 2 disclaimers: In this mad tale Harry’s a year younger than Louis but I still pictured them like, if Louis’ 18 then Harry’s soon-to-be-18 but looks like when he was 16? Some people hate that but! I don’t! Sorry not sorry!!
> 
> Second disclaimer! Heads up! I had to somehow decide how to make you know something is a flashback while also having it be aesthetically pleasing. My first go was cursive but that was just a Major Headache, so now every section starting with then is in the past, years or months ago, and everything starting with _now_ is in the present, moving chronologically. Nothing complicated, it’s usually every other section,, just wanted to let ya know
> 
> Here’s [A PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/user/resurrectdead/playlist/06Ah72tTEVf2CHBVyL8ARH?si=9ekm-dc3TcuRGlJZ_TGXEw) because I love music and this accidentally ended up sounding like a lot of songs

Louis has been ignoring Harry for weeks when he suddenly drunk-calls him from a concert. 

Louis, that is, well aware it’s almost midnight, as well as that he’s completely off his face, as well as how much of an idiotic idea it is. 

But he does it anyway, doesn’t he now? Proper holds the phone up to the music for Harry to hear, even though he must mostly pick up on people shouting, a buzzing and the drums like pulsating brown noise. 

”Hear that?” Louis yells, though it’s barely audible, pressing the phone back to his ear now. ”Did you hear?”

”Why the fuck are you calling?” Harry asks, because it’s 11:30 on a tuesday, and they haven’t talked since Louis told him they should meet up then cancelled the same morning. 

Actually, no - it was in town when they ran into each other and Harry told him to not say anything and fuck off, wasn’t it?

Or maybe it was Louis who said it. The next time. The time he said it because Harry accused him of tweeting things about him when really it was just song lyrics; as if he’d care so much. What an absolute idiot. 

”Wait,” Louis says, takes the phone away and then back. ”Wait. Listen,” moving the phone away again, ”it’s like-”

He holds it up, swaying along to the beat with his phone held high, Harry’s still and silent avatar at the top watching the stage, a version of him from three years ago. A version of him in a time when they could still hold a conversation without fighting, when he still smiled when he saw him, and his hair was still short and pushed back and sun bleached in the wispy ends of his perfect curls— 

Louis loves this, he thinks, squeezing his oversized T-shirt at his chest; the drums and the bass in his bones, the electricity of the room because of the alcohol in his blood. Put that last one in red and bold, actually - well, as a matter of fact, there’s quite a lot of emptied red cups scattered on the floor around him. Quite a lot of the alcohol bit. 

But he’s just had a few, he assures himself, then goes smushing the receiver to his mouth to muffle out breathy nonsense about _missing him_. 

He doesn’t hear Harry’s reply (some girl screaming in his other ear or he’s just ignoring it?) so he goes on, and on and on and on, shit like how badly he _wants to see him again_ , make it up to him, be normal like they were. Because the song reminded him of them, or something. What they used to be. 

It was a love song playing. 

These seemed like perfectly logical thoughts at the time. 

The next week is spent distinctly ignoring text notifications from Harry. 

This turns into muting his conversation all in all, and when Harry finally stops trying to communicate with him, Louis can’t help the strange tugging feeling in his chest. Like he wants the attention back, even though he promptly denies it. 

Hey, no. _Needs_ it. He needs the attention even though he fucking despises it. Even though he turns his head whenever he opens his mouth to speak. Even though he steps on his hand whenever he reaches out for him. 

So Louis gets drunk again. And Louis texts him, fucking ”wish you were here”s and what have yous, but to no avail. There’s no response and it’s 3AM, but Harry still opens each and every one. Louis sees him type, and stop. Erase. Doesn’t matter. The clock turns 4AM, and none of this should matter anymore. 

Harry writes some mean totally-not-about-Louis tweets, which is funny when he’s accused Louis of doing the same, which is also funny because he must know Louis still follows him. Ever since they were 18 and knew each other’s screen names on every single social media and stayed up late to chat on MSN; he only even goes on there still to see what he’s up to if he’s honest, because-

Just because.

He’s also suddenly posting pictures from days and nights out, clubs and bars, his 23rd birthday with lots of friends when Louis just spent his 24th one with just the childhood friends he’s kept from back home. But Harry just seems to keep finding lots of both women and men which is clearly not just to make Louis jealous. It clearly doesn’t work, either. Clearly Louis stays unaffected and doesn’t feel a burning hot sensation in his chest before realising how hard he’s breathing, whole body tense. 

Harry calls Louis’ voicemail twice in the next day, wonders if they really shouldn’t just meet up again, have a drink, just hang out and talk like they used to; two half-assed apologetic texts including one truce-declaring, upside-down smiley face go from Delivered to Read by Harry only a week later.

 

 

_now_

Louis puts his phone down on the bar. 

He’s played the scenario about a billion times in his head in the span of the week that’s passed in radio silence, but not once has it started making sense.

Well, maybe a little sense. Maybe that’s mostly just the denial talking, innit?

Thing is, Louis confesses emotions when drunk. Which makes the other thing that, Louis shouldn’t be drunk as often as he is. But one thing just leads to another, doesn’t it? He gets sad, he drinks. He thinks, and gets sadder. Evil cycle. Neverending.

So. 

Seeing Harry across the bar after not having seen him for actual months, realizing just now he must have kept and only just opened those messages _tonight_ , for one reason or another, and then there he stands with _some girl_...

It feels a bit like a punch square in the gut.

Life has a habit of doing that to you, when you’re-

Nah. _Nah._

Louis orders another shot and downs it. Not worth it. Doesn’t matter. Not tonight. 

Nah, no way. 

Who’s the girl, though? He doesn’t know her. Of course he doesn’t, barely even knows Harry anymore, shouldn’t care that much to either. He’s not part of his life anymore. 

It’s really not a good look on him though, if he’s honest. Harry suits most colours and attires; cream, pastels, glitter, vinyl, the things that would keep him up at night, the things that would make him daydream. 

A tall, slender, dark-haired bird isn’t one of them.

Anything would look better on his arm. 

Maybe Louis should hook him up with a stylist, actually. Those black high-waisted pants are definitely not from this era of fashion, wavy hair long over his shoulders and look at that damn shirt, it’s got way too many buttons loose and it’s so overly snug on his waist, so defining of those little curves— 

Ugh. What do they put in this stuff?

Louis fights the urge to call him. Text him, even, just to see how his reaction would be, across the floor in the dimly lit corner. Would his face fall when he’d see his name on the display? Would he look up and look him straight in the eyes because he already knows exactly where Louis is sitting?

Or would he secretly smile?

 

 

then

”I see you’re in my class.”

Louis looks up from where he’s sat reading a Giddens article, crumpled and stained with tea and the whole lot that goes with being a stressed as fuck student. 

He’s got a snarky remark coming, feels it burning to claw its way up his throat and unavoidably scare this person off, even though he’s trying very hard to find friends this term. Wants to bite back how it’s not any of his business, or something of the like; he talks before he thinks, and this time won’t be any different, he knows it. 

He’s 18, though. This is what unruly youth does best. His specialty. Bon appetit, bitch. 

He parts his lips, suck a breath and. Pauses. 

Thing is, there might just be an angel standing in front of him. And all that sassiness suddenly dissolves within him like an ill-tasting effervescent. 

”Oh,” he goes instead, voice almost breaking. He’s in college, and his voice should definitely not still be breaking. ”Yeah. Pretty shit.”

The boy in front of him laughs, a much charming breath-slash-snort, shoulders raised, eyes closing. 

When they gently open, they’re fond where they’re resting on Louis’ face. ”Can I join you?”

And, Louis’ just bewildered, you know? At a loss for fucking once. He gestures wildly to the sofa opposite him. ”Yeah, course, yeah yeah,” he rushes, kicking his torn backpack down to the floor then folding his legs beneath himself, smoothing out his blue-striped shirt like a nervous habit. 

Louis’ been trying to get acquainted to someone for months, just to have anyone else than just the friends he’s still got from the town where he grew up (like, two) that he texts or calls when he gets home in the afternoons. Is someone fucking with him right now? Is this a joke?

The boy sinks down in the seat, smiling, immediately crossing his legs. Louis’ insides are buzzing. ”I wasn’t sure on my pick,” he says lightly, referencing their course of motherloving sociology. ”Been like, dreading it a bit, if I’m quite honest.”

Louis’ kind of amazed with the way he talks; a slow, Cheshire drawl, dark and smooth like a drunken bloody sailor, not at all suiting his general aesthetic with the ill-fitting blue jeans and the scarf and that. The sounds pour down his spine, still, like warm syrup or something. Toffee. Something dark but sweet you might just get yourself addicted to. 

”Lots of reading,” Louis supposes, flipping his bundle of papers. The reading which is currently going down the drain. He furrows his brow, cocks his head a little. ”Have we met?”

”No,” the boy admits with a wide grin. He leans forward with his hand outstretched, grey cardigan falling open. ”I’m Harry.”

Louis takes Harry’s hand. It’s like, huge, but like, elegantly so? ”Louis.”

Harry’s grin doesn’t leave his face when he leans back, and he won’t break the eye contact either, no matter how skeptical Louis looks. In turn, he feels himself soften. That is a first. He’s stunned. All the awards. 

Green eyes is also a first, admittedly. Perfectly almond shaped ones at that, framed by dark eyelashes and by the apples of his cheeks from that constant little smile of his. Can he stop being so nice to him? Can he honestly?

”Louis,” Harry says then, like he’s considering something. He folds his hands in his lap much regally. ”What did the baboon say to the giraffe?”

Is _that_ a joke? Is he honestly trying to be funny right now? Louis furrows his brow. ”What?”

Harry’s chuckling to himself before even finishing the sentence, arms open like he’s presenting something fantastic. ” _Why the long face?_ ”

Louis stares at him deadpan, but then. Harry’s absolutely gleeful at this. This awful, terrible joke, making a deep dimple pop out as he giggles like mad, so that Louis ends up bursting out laughing too. ”Mate,” he goes, ”that’s so shit.”

” _Heeey_ ,” Harry drawls, mock offended, very badly so because he’s still smiling. Still radiating happiness. ”Broke the ice, didn’t I? And I wrote that when I was like super young.”

A curly strand of hair has fallen in his face which he reaches for and tucks back neatly behind his ear. The hairdo as a whole is sort of looking like a gloria on his head, only working to amplify those strangely cherubic features, like his pale skin with those bright eyes, and like—

Is this his guardian fucking angel, then? Sent from above, he could be, or some other dodgy department of whatever descent to save him from the misery of being alone. 

Because if so, he’d like to maybe request a new one. This one’s bloody _broken_. 

Louis gives a skeptical glare. ”Get back to me when they build a time machine so I can go back and get that smartass out of you then,” he quips, grinning. 

Ah, yes, there it is. The kind of smartass thing of his own that typically scares people who can’t appreciate a good joke right the fuck away from him. 

But Harry puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. He even gasps for effect. ”That’s mean!”

Louis emits a staged sigh, shaking his head. Because Harry just seems to get his sense of humour straight off the bat, doesn’t he now (and is definitely just as excited as Louis is about this). ”So you punch a couple six-year-olds,” he tuts in absolute disbelief, ”and suddenly _I’m_ the bad guy.”

Harry has maybe not stopped laughing, but he might just be laughing harder now. ”I’m sure you’re not a bad person,” he reasons, gesturing with a reassuring hand. ”You just make some bad decisions.”

Louis can tell people are watching them now, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the feeling he gets inside from getting more laughter out of this boy. His full attention on him, his bubbly happiness through the angelic facade. 

”Like this sodding course, eh?” Louis suggests. He throws his papers blindly over his shoulder, and Harry absolutely _guffaws_. 

And then, the unimaginable happens. Because the more they sit there laughing and talking, the more Harry plows on about random things in between ”you know”s and ”kind of”s and ”uh”s, Louis finds himself actually genuinely enjoying the conversation. He’s actually enjoying someone’s company that isn’t one out of his grade school friends or someone from his immediate family. 

This never fucking happens. 

He also finds himself sitting next to Harry in class, then carrying on their insane, nonsensical banter all the way to the bus stop. He finds himself taking Harry home to his bedroom to study later that week. Slips down next to Harry in the next class. And so it continues. 

It does cross the barrier of just studying, at some point. Because, at some point, Louis finds himself really looking forward to seeing Harry next. Finds himself genuinely interested to know his favourite bands, what he's passionate about in life, how he takes his tea (green and no sugar). 

At some point, he even finds himself walking down Manchester streets to treat Harry and himself with some ice cream, after Louis so brilliantly suggested they deserve it after a full hard hour of studying (more like, throwing rubber waste at each other. Those little buggers that wear off the rubber when you erase something? He’s still picking them out of his fringe when they receive their cones in their hands, flicking them off towards Harry when he’s trying to balance his perfectly swirled top and is mostly busy squealing.)

”Mint chocolate is such a specific flavour to have as favourite one,” Harry points out as they’re walking to a bench, licking a forceful stripe in his own. 

Louis just glares at him. ”Excuse me, Mr. Vanilla-with-caramel-syrup-and-hazelnuts-on-top.” He’d slap it out of his hand for comedic effect, but he’s not an absolute dickhead, believe it or not. Besides, he kind of adores the laugh Harry gives when Louis retorts to his playful teasing. ”I wasn’t quite aware there was any _wrong_ decisions to be made about ice cream.”

”Oh, there’s a few,” Harry muses. They sit down in the sun; as much sun as you can pretend there is in the English spring, anyway. ”Potato flavoured?” he suggests, like it’s outrageous Louis hadn’t thought of this before. ”Cheese filling. Tomato sprinkles.”

”You’re just saying random words at this point.”

Harry grins, shaking his head. ”Corn flavoured, Louis. Someone must like corn flavoured ice cream, like, out there in the world somewhere. What do you think?”

”I think you’ve lost the plot,” Louis decides, kicking playfully at Harry’s foot where he’s stuffed his baggy jeans awfully into his sneakers. But he feels fondness deep within himself, despite it all. Harry’s such an absolute nutter sometimes. 

Well. 

Most of the time. 

And mostly when he’s trying really hard to make Louis laugh. Or maybe Louis’ flattering himself here; maybe he’s just being his own authentic, critically insane self, which in turn makes Louis happily lose his mind as well. 

Harry looks down at his ice cream á la baby princess, smiling gently. ”I should pitch that idea. Make ice cream for all the corn-lovers.”

”I can assure you this won’t be the career path leading you to become a millionaire.”

Harry turns. ”Wanna bet?”

Louis does too. ”Yes, actually, how much?”

They’re looking daringly at each other, Harry biting away his smile and trying to keep a poker face. It fails. Which makes Louis laugh too. Then they’re just giggling at the whole stupidity, which is like, the most perfect thing ever. There’s actual warmth in his stomach (and he’s genuinely concerned with how biology can explain this conundrum). 

That’s like the one thing he looks for in a friend, to be quite honest. To be able to laugh at stupid shit and essentially never feel bored. 

And Harry’s pulling this ridiculous face when Louis’ pointing out there’s ice cream on his nose a minute or so later, like this whole creased brow look, mouth a comically straight line, looking undoubtedly much like a frog. He’s pulling this frog face when he goes to wipe it off, and still pulling it when he huffs about being attacked by his own creation like Frankenstein or something. Louis’ smiling so big it aches. 

So, if we add up the facts… 

He might have just found himself a friend.

 

 

_now_

How can beer taste so stale? Maybe his taste buds are wearing off. Maybe he’s dying. 

Yeah, yeah. That one. Definitely dying. 

Yet there’s some sort of anger lirking its merry way out from somewhere in the void of painful nothingness in his stomach. Anger at what, he’s not sure. Maybe just Harry in general, over there getting all he wants with that bird on his arm, as per usual. He fucking hates him. He does. Why is he so happy with her, when Louis is over here hurting? Who gave him the right?

Maybe he should drink some more. This obviously always solves things. 

Like their first fight, when Louis had gone off to some party without him because Harry couldn’t decide on a shirt. But that’s clearly so stupid, right? Especially when Louis had just gone for a plain black t-shirt that ended up representing his melancholy. Ended up being so lonely he drank his heart full in a dim corner, he did, queuing up his and Harry’s shared favourite songs on the spotify app in secret. 

But when Harry came around later in the night, oh, listen. He gave a reason for being late. 

His shirt was black too, but a button-up, kind of like tonight but it was _sheer_ , frilly collar, red _roses_ embroidered on it. He kept it flowy over his ripped trousers but _god_ how it was straining against those biceps he’d been working on, like when Louis had picked him up from the gym just a week before. 

But he was always in jumpers. Big, loose shirts that didn’t give anything to indicate his progress. 

Now he was _showing off_. 

And for who? Harry didn’t have a girlfriend then; never had, when he thought about it. Never talked about crushes or fit girls. He couldn’t wrap his mind around who he looked so fucking _hot_ for. 

It gave Louis a strange feeling. To admit what he thought of it, for one; the way it made him dizzy if he looked over at him for too long. He couldn’t pinpoint it as good or bad. He couldn’t comprehend it. 

Ended up running to the loo to throw up, embarrassingly enough. Not because of Harry, mind, just. A drink too many, maybe. Too many questions stirring. 

Spent god knows how long half dazed out over the toilet, bent in half and retching but, sometimes coming to. Sometimes returning to consciousness just long enough to feel a large hand stroke his back, his forehead, rub soothing circles. Tuck hair behind his ear or caress it softly. Then he woke up on the house owner’s sofa the next morning without anyone there to take him home. 

That was the start of it. The fights. 

Then they never stopped fighting. 

Louis squeezes his glass. It’s cool beneath his palm, works to save him from overheating for at least another moment or so. That’s good. It would be awkward having to excuse himself in front of the whole bar and no less, to _Harry_ , as he’d spontaneously combust into flames right in the middle of it all. _Awkward._

It’s not fair of him to be watching the two of them like this, he knows. It’s not fair on anyone though, not on them for being spied on, in their clearly so intimate bubble. 

Or on Louis. For. 

For just. _Having to watch._ Ew. 

But then, Harry says something funny - or it must be, logically, what with the girl laughing and putting her hand on his shoulder. And it stays there, and the moment drags on, and on. And, Louis thinks, wildly, that she shouldn’t be allowed to touch him. She shouldn’t touch him like that. 

And why? It’s not like he owns him. 

It’s not like- 

_God_.

He takes a swig, suddenly remembering he’s ordered Vodka and Coke once his beer was finished and ends up coughing, surprised by the burn, and he turns his entire body the other way. 

But Harry knows him. He knows his voice, this denim jacket, his dishevelled hair from the back when he’s fucked up like this. Harry knows him. 

So he knows he’s here now.

 

 

then

”Lou?”

He groans in response. There’s a tell-tale click of the door as it shuts before Harry starts toeing his way inside the dark room. The bed shifts underneath him when he sits by his feet. 

”Your sister let me in.”

And Louis’ going to have to nick her favourite pair of hoop earrings as payback. 

He groans again, muffled against the sheets where he’s lying face-down. He knows very well it’s time for class, but it’s winter. People aren’t meant to be up when it’s not even light out yet. 

Maybe moving the blinds from in front of his windows would help this. But also, uh. Maybe he’s not feeling too great overall. Besides the sleepiness and throbbing headache, maybe he’s just feeling a little dead today. 

”Are you okay?” Harry murmurs softly, and, god. Like, fucking god almighty, that’s the sweetest sound in the world, you know? It just is. It always is. 

Louis doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t want to lie. Not to Harry; not to his best friend. So he just lies and listens to his soft breaths, how Harry’s in turn listening so carefully for Louis to give some sort of sound of approval, anything at all for him to work on. 

That he’s okay. That this is just him being moody. But he’s not. He can’t quite bring himself to move out of bed today, if he’s quite honest, let alone leave the house. 

Harry’s closer now, but not in a weird way. Just comforting. Like he’s just checking on him, like he does. ”You don’t want to go to class?” 

Nope, Sherlock. Nopety-nope he does not. 

Louis’ giving no signs of life except for the rise and fall of his back, encapsulated by a too-big hoodie with the hood up over his shaggy hair. He pouts his lip, met with his soft duvet. 

Harry just sighs. ”Okay.” And he seems to put his hands on his knees in defeat. ”We don’t- yeah. We don’t have to.”

He hesitates, then gets off the bed. Louis listens carefully as he walks over to his desk, then comes back again, and the bed barely even moves when Harry gingerly sits down. 

”Could you write your password in at least?” he asks, and Louis almost shifts to glance at him. ”I’ll pick the movie. I brought candy, for Mr. Johnson's long lecture, but. Shame to waste it.”

He does turn his head then, just enough to blink his eyes open and see Harry sitting by his feet, a bag of sweets planted between them, Louis’ laptop on his legs. Louis sees snowflakes melting in his wavy hair, sees the swallows inked into his skin where his neckline of his jumper scoops low, collarbones starting to come out the more he’s been hitting the gym lately (who even does that? He gets actual avocado on toast and Louis demands pizza every other night, what a muppet). 

The screen casts a glow over his soft face, too; the only light thing in his entire bedroom.

Which is just— Symbolism. Fucking symbolism, innit?

No, it’s just a hyperbole. Because he’s exaggerating… Or is he, really? Isn’t Harry the only one that seems to shine a light in the darker moments, that makes him genuinely happy, these days? The only one that keeps trying even when he shuts him out? 

He huffs as he rolls over, stretches to type his password in as Harry looks anywhere but at the keyboard. When he’s signed in they don’t say anything else; Harry just goes straight to Netflix to type in _romantic comedies_.

”What’s a feel-good one?” he muses to himself, whilst Louis finds the strength to just sit up. He props his pillow against the wall and leans against it, watching Harry with weary eyes. ”We’ve already seen Notting Hill-”

”Whatever you want,” Louis pipes in, voice hearse from unuse. He needs his morning tea, possibly a warm crumpet, with like a whole block of melting butter on it. And he needs to wee. Badly. But how does he walk away from what’s right in front of him? ”It’s fine.”

”Oh,” Harry mouths, already hovering over it with the cursor. Cheeky chap, right here. ”I thought you didn’t like it.”

_You know how to make me feel better anyway_ , Louis doesn’t say, as he watches him with a heaviness in his chest. _Just being here to light up my life_.

”I’ll live,” is what he says instead, with the obligatory, casual shrug, like he’s absolutely unphased and unaffected. ”We’ve only seen it like two times.”

Harry smiles, clicking the thumbnail in victory for it to load up. _I’m happy when you’re happy_.

”I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy,” Harry starts quoting, then bites his lip through a smile. He looks over at Louis with obvious excitement, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Louis deadpans right back at him. ”I literally don’t know the rest.”

Harry huffs. ”You’re in denial,” he explains to him, climbing further up the bed to sit next to him against his own pillow. ”This is the best movie of the century.”

”Maybe when you let me use my own damn Netflix account I can show you the actual good movies,” Louis teases back, poking him in the side. 

Harry giggles as he curls up, goes for poking him back but never really tries too hard. ”I’m a poor student, I couldn’t afford this luxury.”

And Louis’ already smiling. Just like that, all the heavy clouds disperse, just by Harry just… _being_.

”What _are_ you talking about?” he questions with arched brows, and Harry laughs. ”Am I not _in your class_?”

”Well, but. You know.” Then he slaps his arm. ”Shush! Oh my god! It’s starting.”

”I need a wee.”

” _Lou_ ,” Harry complains, already dragging him back down before he even attempts to leave. ”You do not.” He does, actually. Harry’s currently elbowing his stomach. ”Julia Roberts will be _devastated_.”

Louis smiles openly, shaking his head. Welp. Alright. Fuck it. ”Let’s have at it, then,” he declares, watching the opening credits. ”It’s only for the third time.”

Harry smiles so big, so close to him, and when he leans back and their arms brush together Louis finds his breathing tighten in his chest with how _aware_ he suddenly is of his presence. His jeans that used to be too big on him gradually going tighter with each new buy. The rolled up sleeves on his forest green jumper to show those silly first tattoos he did himself before half-assedly covering them up with an anchor one. 

His head on his shoulder in the dark of Louis’ bedroom, all alone together. 

Magnets. They’re like magnets. Positive and negative, always drawn together. Can’t make them seperate or go any other way; they always come back to each other. 

Is that a metaphor? He’s not sure when he started thinking such stupid shit. 

Harry’s just a friend. 

They spend most of their time together, anyway. Sit next to each other in class, spend breaks together sharing earphones, wait for each other to finish after exams. His mum has already suggested giving Harry a spare key, or starting to pay rent, actually, what with how much time he spends over. Which is something Louis finds ridiculous because he spends just as much time at Harry’s house (where his mum has learned and now makes him his favourite meal or dessert about once a week). 

Maybe they would have had that cute best friend pact you do as kids, whatever form it takes. Maybe crossing _yes _on a _be my bff?_ note. But they’re not kids. Louis is turning 20 in about a week and the mid life crisis is already hitting him hard.__

____

__

__It feels better with his best mate here though. Like maybe it’s not all so shit._ _

__And he owes him for this one. Maybe he should take him to see a movie for real in the cinema at some point. He’ll have to work that one out with the whole student economy and that. That’s what you do when you’re friends, yeah? Stick up for each other. Return favours because you genuinely care, genuinely want the other to be well, to thrive, succeed, all that good stuff._ _

__And with Harry lying next to him on his unmade bed, in the dawn of a school day just like any other but for some reason just that much worse to inhibit him from getting up and doing his human duties…_ _

__He can’t help but feel guilty Harry’s missing out on so much just to be there with him._ _

__It’s not until the movie’s over and Louis hears nothing but Harry’s soft, slow breaths beside him he decides to put the laptop down and lirk himself out of Harry’s hold. He stands, and he feels about double his actual weight with that pressure on his tummy, mixed with that dousy sleepiness he’s going to have to give into after his toilet break._ _

__He’s so tired he actually sits down on the seat to wee - big boy move, of course, like he lost the 0 in 20 - and of course this is when Harry pads into the bathroom rubbing his eyes. Alertness couldn’t come to him any quicker._ _

”Oh my god!” he exclaims, jumps back, and then bursts out laughing. ”I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was— _Louis!_ You’re _sitting down!_ ”

__Louis had his head serenely in his arms and all, thanks very much, and now he’s trying frantically to keep even the slightest bit of modesty with his hands in his lap while he laughs hysterically. ”Fuck off! Fuck right off, I’m fucking tired, man!”_ _

__”I’m so sorry,” Harry repeats, laughing, backing out and closing the door. ”I thought you were in the kitchen, oh my god.”_ _

__Harry leans on the wall outside, still chuckling, and when Louis has finished his business and is washing his hands, his phone pings with a notification._ _

It’s from Twitter, from a certain Harry Styles: _”When @Louis_Tomlinson feels tired... he sits down to have a wee…I’ve seen it.”_

__”You’re so fucking dead,” Louis mutters through gritted teeth, and already he hears Harry burst off and run down the corridor back to his bedroom._ _

Louis sprints after him, jump-attacks him on his bed where he attempts tickling him and Harry squeals, absolutely _joyful_ at this, using hands and feet to try and push Louis off. ”It’s true!” he defends. ”I wasn’t lying!”

__”You can rather keep that a secret to everyone in our year that follows me,” Louis quips, curling around him to poke at his tummy. ”And then I might just not have to throw myself off a cliff.”_ _

Harry turns all owl-eyes on him. ”I would _never_.”

__Louis’ grinning all until he falls limp beside Harry, both laughing, both breathless. ”A pleasure doing business with you.”_ _

__He’s grinning extra much throughout getting his phone back out to write his revenge-reply. If Harry plays rough, Louis can play rougher._ _

He taps respond on the tweet: _”@Harry_Styles When harry is tired he doesn’t even lift the seat when he wees….#weeweemess”_

Harry sees it on his screen before he hits post, tries to slap his phone out of his hand but it’s all in vain. ” _That_ was lying!” Harry exclaims, aghast, rolling over to lean on his elbows and glare down at Louis.

__Louis shrugs. ”Didn’t say in my contract I wouldn’t.” He pokes his nose._ _

__Harry’s brow creases but he’s too tired to fight, just pokes his tongue out at him, blue from candy and, oh. A weird thought hits Louis, then._ _

With Harry on top of him with his warmth coming over him, embracing all of him, and his hair that’s usually styled with that little wavy fringe he’s started learning how to do so well shaped all cute from how he’s been sleeping; eyes green and pupils wide and with a mouth he knows tastes all sweet like _blueberry_ just mere _inches_ from his own… 

__There’s a strange second when Louis’ face stills, his stomach tightens—_ _

__And then that’s all it turns into. A thought._ _

__Harry’s face goes blank and he rolls back over on his back, and then they don’t say anything for a moment. Louis chews his bottom lip and stares at the ceiling. Harry probably didn’t feel that. He’s barely even sure it was there in the first place._ _

__And then Harry says: ”Do you wanna watch another movie?”_ _

__”You planning on staying here all day?”_ _

__”Yeah,” Harry says, matter-of-factly. That kind of sucks and at the same time really doesn’t. It’s just that Louis suddenly really needs a proper wank and he obviously can’t as long as Harry’s over. ”I am.”_ _

__He’ll have to schedule another appointment for that, then._ _

__It must be closing in on lunch time by now, but with the bag of sweets now emptied on the floor, Louis can’t be arsed. He should be studying. He should be practising some football. ”Can we just nap for a bit?” he asks him._ _

__Harry’s already cuddling up to him like a kitten, making Louis’ heart flutter strangely with that swelling in his joggers he’s trying to will away with the power of his thoughts alone. Harry puts his arm around his waist and Louis automatically puts his around his shoulders. ”Thought you’d never ask.”_ _

__Harry’s fast asleep, and Louis spends hours awake staring at the ceiling._ _

____

 

 

_now_

He’s standing breathing heavily on the balcony when he realises what just happened. His fingers grip the railing and he tips his head forward to squeeze his eyes shut. 

Just bolted, he did. Yep. Like a coward he just got up and left without even looking back. 

He tends to do that, when emotions get the best of him. Escape. What would Dr. Phil have to say about that?

He pats his pocket for his trusty pack of cigarettes, feels his phone instead and freezes. It’s a shot in the dark, but. He pulls it up and checks the homescreen. 

No notifications. 

No Harry. 

God, why does that still make his heart plummet? He drops it back into his pocket and locates his cigarettes, fishes one out with shaky fingers and hollows his cheeks for a drag as he lights it. 

It’s comforting to chain smoke. Like a hug from inside, or whatever teenage girls say about tea and their specifically prepared coffee. Seems a good enough idea right about now anyway. Just a little zoning out to shake hands with death can’t hurt. 

Like how there’s comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool. 

Harry saw him, is the thing. Of course he did. He knows he saw him sitting there, which would have been the first time since, well. 

Actually, maybe it wasn’t when they ran into each other in town that was the last time they met, when they told each other to fuck off. Maybe it was that night when Louis showed up at his house. But that’s been more than once-

When was the last time he let him in?

A year ago? Last month?

Oh, god. 

He takes a deep drag, fingers still shaking. It’s like a movie when the person keeps repeating the same day over and over. Groundhog Day, right? But instead of getting it better each time, to the point it stops going because everything is finally perfect, it just gets worse. The weeks are all the same with slight variation, a mishap here, a meetup there. A makeup somewhere in between, and then. 

Back to the same mistakes. 

Like Louis just can’t win. And Harry loses sometimes, but it seems like he’s mostly winning. Because he’s in there with a girl, you know? He found someone at least for tonight. Great for him. Fantastic. 

Like when Louis was 20 and trying to make him jealous by pretending to be interested in someone, just a girl his year who seemed sweet, and all it did was bring him heartache. Because he wasn’t even doing it for himself, couldn’t make either himself or her happy. Just really wanted Harry to notice him again. Wanted to see him fuming with rage and fight to get him back. 

And it never happened. And Harry kept hanging out with new people. New parties, new shit-talking about Louis. New broken promises that wasn’t the only thing keeping Louis sleepless. Because now he had to break it up with someone he was never even together with, who he never wanted to hurt, something which karma had it’s kiss for for Louis in the end. Harry just kept winning. 

He fucking hates when Harry wins. He fucking hates Harry. 

Well. 

Then there was that one time.

 

 

then

”Would you fucking sit _still?_ ”

Harry’s giggling, squirming, scrunching his nose up so that Louis almost gets distracted looking at him in the mirror rather than the masterpiece he’s working on in front of him. ”I can’t help it. You’re so _handsy_.”

Louis scoffs, grabs a new handful of hair wax and tries yet again to style Harry’s unruly fringe into a quiff. ”Remind me to never compliment this curly hair of yours ever again, Harold. I think I’ve had one too many of it.”

”I’ll drink to that,” says Harry, raising his drink in a cheer to nobody but himself in the mirror, tips it back only to realise it’s empty. ”This is empty!”

”So’s your brain,” Louis muses, but then again, empty is also what a good half of the Jack Daniel’s bottle they nicked off his stepdad is. He runs his hands through Harry’s hair again. ”Hm. When was the last time you had a cut?”

”A cut in what?” Harry asks with a grin because he thinks he’s being _so bloody hilarious_. ”Economic spendings?”

”You’re testing your luck.”

Harry smiles the cherub smile. ”Calories?” 

Louis breathes out heavily. He leans his chin down on the top of Harry’s head, _exhausted_. ”Well it wouldn’t be a cut from getting rid of any stubble, would it now,” he mumbles in reference to the utter lack of it, squeezing Harry’s broad shoulders. 

Suddenly realising he’s shifted his whole face into Harry’s hair, that his nose is buried in soft curls where his malicious hands haven’t yet touched it with product, he freezes. His lips graze it, unmoving. Then his eyes close. And he takes a breath. 

And he smells fucking heavenly, and, what the _actual fuck_ is Louis even thinking with right now? 

He pulls back as if nothing happened, which kind of almost makes him lose his footing how he does it but, oh so fortunately for him, his eyes come back to focus on Harry’s face in the mirror. His eyes are closed too. 

They flutter open, rest on Louis. Then he frowns. ”I _choose_ to shave mine,” he counters, affronted. 

They’re slightly intoxicated. 

Louis grins, feeling lighter than he did just a second ago (a second which felt, uh, kind of like bathing in melted chocolate). He ruffles his hair a last time, then gives up at last with a heavy sigh. ”Okay, whatever,” he announces, ”that’s the best I can do.”

His own isn’t looking much better, if he’s honest. His fringe is flat on his forehead, back of it all shaggy and spiky and hard enough from plenty types of hair products to stab man. Slightly punk, mostly just messy. Like a hedgehog, he looks, if we’re honest with ourselves. It’s what Harry likes to label his _bad boy scruff_ that pulls the whole look together. 

Pulls the sinking ship to shore, more like. 

Harry studies his new hairdo, and so does Louis. He always knew he had the face for pushed back hair. Strong features like those cheekbones, that jawline, his piercing eyes; soft ones like his dimple, the curve of his lips, his _kind_ eyes. Things like that don’t deserve to be hidden, man, it ain’t right. 

Harry nods at himself, checking it from all angles. ”Sick.”

They’re _very_ intoxicated. 

”That’ll be 500 pounds,” Louis announces, holding his hand out with his palm open. ”I take cash only. Please recommend Salon St. Louis to all your acquaintances.”

Harry turns in his chair. He’s wearing a really lame black shirt with white hearts printed on it (which he of course pulls off super well because, _of course_ ) as they’re just about finishing up their little pre-party in Harry’s bedroom, filled with 80’s hits playlists and whiskey with coke in water glasses, before they’re about to head off to a classmate’s house for a lit friday night. 

”Can I do dishes?” Harry asks, smiling sheepishly. ”Uh, this isn’t a restaurant… Can I sweep the floor?”

Louis closes his open hand and tuts him. ”I’ll have to turn you in to the authorities. Robbing a poor old worker on money like that.”

Harry bursts into a fit of giggles then, seemingly randomly. Louis just sighs at him, shaking his head, because the song has just switched to _Take on me_ by a-ha - which should be taken very seriously as the piece of actual art it is thanks very fucking much - and he starts nonchalantly smoothing out his own suit jacket in the mirror instead. 

Even though the room is only lit up with the lamp by the mirror and is also kind of definitely very wobbly at the very moment, he thinks he might look quite alright. He’s only worn this jacket to fancy occasions before, like weddings, graduations. Pairing with a black T-shirt instead of a gross, white button-up was definitely the way to go. It’s rolled up at the sleeves, showing the once tattoo-less skin of his wrists that’s now dotted with a pair of quotation marks, littered with silly little symbols that mean a lot to him, rounded with a rope. He never used to be a tattoo kind of person before he knew Harry, but then with how passionate Harry talked of them he really couldn’t help but be inspired too, planning things and concepts together and helping each other through the process. 

Maybe he would have never gotten them if he didn’t have Harry’s hand to squeeze when the needle created a particular sting. Certainly would have never gotten something like a bloody rope, anyways. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry rise from his chair…

...then fall straight to the floor. 

Here, he continues giggling, albeit slightly _louder_. 

Louis stares at him, deadpan. ”I’ll have what he’s having,” he mutters to nobody in particular. 

He can’t help how adorable he finds Harry lying there though, chest flushed, lips cherry red. He’s sure Harry can’t help it either though. Must be hard being so sodding cute all the time. 

He finds himself studying him like that a lot actually, which kind of gets awkward when he gets caught. Harry’s his best friend, though. He accepts him anyway, most of the time. 

Thing is. 

Thing is, Louis doesn’t recall that best friend sort of fondness being accompanied by a tugging sort of _longing_ like this... 

Okay. Okay let’s _stop_ this. 

Harry reaches his arms up then (oh, good, a sign of life) and makes grabby hands for Louis. ”Come down and join me!”

Does he have a choice?

He doesn’t take Harry’s hands, simply because he knows Harry will pull him to his death. So he lies himself down next to him with all the right amounts of excessive huffing and groaning of a 73-year-old lady named Gertrude in the body of a 20-year-old mess with a mid-life crisis. 

”Look at the stars,” Harry says dreamily. 

Louis settles on his back, and then he’s staring at his white fucking ceiling. 

”Mate,” he states, regally, turns his head to Harry, ”you’ve lost it.”

”Have not.” He’s pouting, but only a bit. Then he goes for licking his lips, and it’s all slow, like he’s thinking, and Louis’ suddenly stuck staring. He can’t even remember when he started. Definitely can’t remember how to stop. ”It’s not always things you _see_. Sometimes things are just an _emotion_.”

Okay. Now _Louis’_ about to lose it. 

”I think you’re a lightweight,” he reasons. 

Harry turns his head towards him and suddenly they’re inches apart. Everything smells strongly of liquor but all Louis can think is, _cherry_.

Cherry, cherry, cherry. 

”I think you should have your hair back too,” Harry reasons back. 

Crimson and clover, over and over. 

His hand comes up (judging the speed wrong and almost knocking Louis in the chin, judging the distance wrong and almost poking his eye out), and he gently lifts a strand of hair in Louis’ face. Sweeps it upwards. His face is absolutely enchanted when he looks at him. 

”Would look nice,” he mumbles sweetly, deeply concentrated on tucking another loose strand behind Louis’ ear. 

Louis’ holding his breath the entire time. 

”I do yours, you do mine,” he hears himself say. 

Suddenly the room isn’t only wobbling from his drunkenness, but it’s like he can see the heat waves too, like on asphalt on hot summer days. He’s burning. They’re on fire.

Harry suddenly stops his movements, flicker his eyes back down to Louis. Louis literally feels all wind knocked out of him. He doesn’t even know what’s going on. He just know there’s a lot of feelings churning inside him at the moment. 

Fuck those eyes. 

Fuck, those _eyes_. 

He’s not sure why, but somewhere in the distance he registers what sounds like church music. And it’s like there’s more coming on and getting more distinct the more he stares at the beautiful creature lying in front of him. 

It’s starting to feel kind of comical, like this is some sort of bizarre Godly experience, until the song playing in the background bursts out into a guitar riff, and then George Michael’s singing _”Well I guess it would be nice, if I could touch your body”_ , and the music was just the intro and _oh my god he actually thought—_

It catches him off guard, badly so, and he realises he broke the stare. 

Harry drops his hand back down. Louis looks back at him, how he wets his lips, takes a breath. ”Who’s your favourite Beatle?”

Oh. 

If Louis was a person that blushed, he would be blushing right now. He might be. He’s suddenly pulled back to the right level of existence - tugged like he’s attached to a string, more like - and he’s not quite sure he likes it here. 

He clears his throat awkwardly. ”Beetle?”

”Like the Beatles,” Harry smiles, back to eyeing his fringe. He brushes more hair back, but Louis isn’t going to fall for that again, nope. No matter how soft his voice is and how gentle his touch, no matter how much he wants to caress his face right back or maybe have him climb on top of him. 

He’s just _drunk_.

”Obviously George”, he says, furrowing his brow in mock offense. Only Harry could come up with a new topic of conversation on a whim like that. ”Bet you like Ringo.”

Harry sports a dopey grin. ”He’s fit.” He tucks his hand under his cheek, and it goes all, _squish_. ”Maybe Paul. Can’t choose.”

He’s so gorgeous it actually hurts.

Louis rolls back over on his back. The room does a proper 360 and then a proper half of that every time he blinks. He closes his eyes for a moment to try and compose himself, and the image of Harry’s glossy emerald eyes and wet cherry lips burns behind his eyelids. 

He’s just _drunk_ , he tells himself again, like a mantra; he’s just drunk which just makes him a little _horny_. Nothing to do with anything else. 

Nothing. Else.

”I don’t really want to go out,” he says, off the top of his head. 

Harry sighs. He rolls over on his back too. ”You read my mind.”

His phone is still playing _Faith_ into the speakers, singing about needing time off of an emotion. As much as he’d gladly show everyone from class and then some what great outfits he can pull off when he’s not rolling from his bed straight into the classroom, it literally doesn’t even mean shit. Harry’s bedroom is, as well as his own, his favourite place in the world. 

”Should we just stay in?”

It’s persuasive enough. 

They order pizza, eat it in bed while binging Doctor Who and sharing a strawberry cider to ride out the buzz. 

There’s stars on the ceiling. 

Afterwards, it takes them a whole day of rest, water and cleansing themselves of sin from that night’s festivities before they can even text normally again, and it’s a week later Harry comes over to Louis’ again. At this point, Louis is even convinced he made that whole night up. 

The looks is one thing, the touching is another. The discussion about guys, no matter how strange, is on a completely different level. Take on me, and if I could touch your body, and crimson and clover. Cherry and emerald. Over and over. 

He knows of people who forget things from when they’ve been drunk; it’s honestly not that far-fetched. 

Especially since Harry’s acting absolutely normal when he lets him in, when they get their usual snack at the table and talk about their week, about shows they’re watching. They make their way up the stairs and it’s still normal, yet at the same time it’s so very strange. 

”How do you even pronounce that?”

Louis’ got his legs propped up against the wall over the headboard, Harry’s hanging off the edge of the bed, on his stomach with his head in his hands. Like any good boys on a school night they’re studying, because what else would they be doing? Honestly. What else. 

With the way they’re lying, Harry’s left arm tattoos match up with the ones Louis’ got done on his right one to match; the anchor keeping the rope grounded, Louis’ compass letting him know where’s what’s important. 

Harry only has to turn his head to look at what Louis’ pointing at. ”What?” he answers intelligently. 

”That shit,” Louis gruffs, mashing his finger into the textbook. He’s sick of this. Sick of university. 

Then again, it’s the one thing still giving him a legitimate reason to be with Harry. 

”Habitus,” Harry replies, turning his head back. ”That’s not so weird.”

Maybe Louis’ just looking for excuses for him to pay attention to him. 

”Piece of shit,” he grumbles, because sometimes his comically bad temper makes Harry laugh, ”paper. Fucking.” He tosses it up in the air. ”Trees pressed to sheets.” It lands on his chest. 

Harry snickering beside him, watching him with big eyes. ”You’re gonna blame the _trees_.”

”Course not, young Harold,” Louis states, looking back at him. ”I’ll blame the ground for growing them. And since I don’t know where they’re from,” he smiles good-naturedly, ”I’ll blame _the whole fucking Earth._ ”

That gets to him. And Louis’ just, ah, you know, he’s just become so _endeared_ with the way his nose scrunches up when he laughs and stuff. How he squeezes his eyes shut so that his eyelashes fan out, the dimple popping out, how genuinely happy he looks. 

He’s endeared no matter how much he’s had to drink, no matter if he’s lacking concentration or not. 

And there it is. The _longing_. 

And, it’s like he doesn’t even know what it’s for. What is it he longs for with Harry? What is it about him overall? He can’t place it, doesn’t know shit, just that it’s this strong, this _insanely_ strong feeling, like. Like he can’t _breathe_ sometimes when he looks at Harry. 

Like he just wants something so badly, so painfully much and he doesn’t even know how to get it. Can’t place it anywhere inside himself in any of the boxes he has set out for his personality, his likes, his life. Nothing adds up or fits together. 

Suddenly, he feels antsy. Because why doesn’t it make sense? Why doesn’t it feel like it’s a thing he _can_? That he can do, that he can feel, can understand. 

He realises he’s staring when Harry slowly opens his eyes again and his face falls - but not like it’s out of sadness or anything. Just some sort of realisation. 

Realisation that they’re both very close and they’re both flicking between looking at each other’s eyes, and their lips.

And they’re sober now. And they’re thinking rationally, and there’s no music playing… and they’re alone. 

Oh, _god_ , his lips. 

He swallows a knot in his throat, and Harry lightly parts those sinful lips of his, sucks in a shaky breath. His stomach is tight with every emotion available. Are they moving closer to each other? Is the room really spinning right now? 

He’s so beautiful, right in front of him. It’s really happening now. This is the one. They’re on _fire_. 

Louis-

Louis turns over. 

Turns away from Harry, facing the wall. 

And he picks up his textbook and continues pretending to read from the chapter. He can’t fucking read. His mind is all but screaming bloody fucking murder at him, like oh fuck. Oh fucking shit, god fucking _damn it_. 

He hears Harry stall, shocked, maybe, before cautiously turning over too. 

They both listen for more. He knows this, but no one says anything. No one apologizes, because he doesn’t know what for. No one turns back and lets what was bound to happen just. Happen. 

Whatever that was. Whatever the hell it was. He lies trembling while he thinks about it, because _shit_ , he wanted that so badly. He _still_ wants it so much it _hurts_. He wants to touch him, to feel him, taste him. He wants everything. He wants Harry’s everything. 

And Louis can’t face it. It feels shameful, for some reason, like he just did something he wasn’t supposed to. Even though he never did anything; like the proper implication of it alone was too much. 

”What’s this word?” he mumbles over his shoulder, maybe a good 20 minutes later, for no reason because he already knows it. Like nothing happened. He shifts slightly for Harry to see. 

Harry bumps into his shoulder when he turns, and it burns his skin. ”Social capital,” he mumbles, voice odd. ”You know this.”

When it comes to the standard question of what superpower he wishes he had he always thought he was a mind control kind of guy. But, fuck, he never wanted to have the ability to vanish into thin air as much as he does right about now. 

He ignores Harry’s texts for the rest of the day when he’s gone home. He doesn’t know what to say, so that’s the easier route. He avoids him, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself when he sees him. 

Seeing him keeps making him dizzy, but being away makes him think of him, which makes him just as dizzy as well as absolutely miserable. 

Suddenly his thoughts are occupied with the electricity in his touches and how soft his lips look. 

And suddenly he realises he’s been practically walking on pink clouds for months on end, but it’s only because someone pulled them away from underneath him like a mat and now he’s fallen straight down on the ground and it’s all dark and cold there, because he’s not cuddling with Harry every other day anymore. It suddenly feels strange that he wants to, but worse that he feels he shouldn’t. 

It happens something similar at their lockers the next week. Harry’s lingering by Louis’ as he fidgets with his backpack string. 

That one afternoon when something so strange happened is all but forgotten but still not acknowledged, still not talked about like a silent, mutual agreement… and suddenly a weird anticipation grows in Louis. 

Weird, because it feels like they left off without finishing something, and maybe this is diving back into it. He still doesn’t know what _it_ is, is the thing. He just wants it. He wants him. 

Oh. 

Oh, he wants him. 

”Can I walk you to the bus then?” Louis asks out of the blue, because it’s the first real thing he’s said all day apart from the casual school talk. 

Because he’s sure this is what it’s leading up to. At least some sort of contact. The slightest interaction. 

But, Harry. ”Oh, I’m sorry.” He flicks his eyes up at him, big, almost startled. ”Going with a friend downtown.”

Harry. Harry _declines_. 

”Oh,” Louis echoes, voice small. But he’s already nodding, trying to brush over how violently his heart is breaking in his chest right about now. Harry hasn’t ever turned him down before. ”That’s quite alright. I’ll just, see you tomorrow.”

”Yeah,” says his Harry, looking closely at him. ”It’s just, Marcus, you know. Asked me to come.”

Louis does know Marcus, but he doesn’t know why that’s important. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know this. ”Sure,” he says; unsure. ”It’s fine.”

He didn’t want to know who’s taking his place. 

”Ah. Yeah.” Harry waves, albeit stiffly, walking backwards. ”I should go.” He looks at him so fucking weirdly. ”Bye then.”

Louis waves him off, then has to walk alone. He can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. It’s like there’s fire inside of him, except it’s burning icy cold. He can’t place the feeling because none of the options make sense or fit the empty puzzle slots, but it pops up a bunch again and again for the rest of the day to absolutely consume him, like a frantic hammer aiming right at his already shattered heart.

Because it’s kind of like Harry was making a point. Making a point, to hurt Louis? Or to let him know he’s not actually hopelessly dependant on him? Both options would be motivated by him wanting to prove he has other friends. Better ones, funnier and nicer, probably. More loyal. 

And Louis is just a pastime. Louis’ just a piece of shit. 

Louis pulls out his phone as he lies in his bed alone that night, skips Harry’s text conversation and goes on to Leo, a friend from his hometown he still finds himself talking to from time to time. A fair enough contestant for confiding his emotions in when his usual rock has rolled on down the mountain without him, anyway. 

_”what does it mean when someone special to u makes a huge point of how they’re hanging out with someone else othr than u ? :(”_

He keeps the phone in his hand and watches the dotted little speech bubble that indicates his reply being composed. 

_”Friend or someone ur interested in???”_

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s pretty obvious Harry’s just a friend, and still he doesn’t find himself ever writing it out. 

It’s silent for only a moment, then it buzzes again. 

_”Mate”_  
_”Rocket science. You’ll figure it out”_

Louis doesn’t figure out. 

Two weeks later is the party when he yells at Harry for the first time to then storm off without him. Another two days until Harry’s ditching him for friends again. 

Louis makes a comment about annoying Harry’s acting sometime after when they’re just having lunch, like something he doesn’t even mean that's not true because he knows he likes everything about Harry, something miniscule about his slow way of talking or a bad joke or something stupid like that even though he would have usually just laughed it off. Even though they’ve never spoken badly of each other before. The things that used to endear him to pieces now making him boil on the inside for reasons he can’t explain.

And Harry looks so hurt. Which is something Louis was genuinely not prepared for, not thinking he was capable of causing such emotions in the boy that used to be his favourite person. He gets a snide comment about how he’s passive-aggressive some days later, like some sort of payback. 

But it’s the blank yet disappointed expression that gets to him, that would have been enough for him to break in two. He could submit to a world record for having the most amount of stubbed out cigarettes and tears cried in a single window in a Manchester house. 

It’s better to just stay away. 

Because, as the seasons change, as Harry goes from being the moon to the sun - cherubic, pale looks turned golden, summer brown skin against dark fabrics and the long, chestnut curls that drives Louis more than a little bit crazy - suddenly, he knows he can’t take it anymore. 

He can’t sleep. He can’t sleep, because his bed feels too hot, but too cold at the same time. The thought of Harry’s muscle definition when there’s a sheen of sweat on it from the sun makes him toss and turn and tangle himself in his sheets, but the emptiness beside him makes him reach out for something that’s not there anymore. 

It’s better to just stay away. So he does. He tries his very best to. 

It’s just weird when you can’t be happy for someone. When you can’t encourage their achievements anymore, because they did it alone or with someone else, when it was supposed to be with you. 

Harry was supposed to always be with Louis. 

He starts trying to spend more time with other people then. People in bars, that is, people in clubs and at parties. Getting fucked up to not think about him. Getting more and more lonesome just to escape. 

Get away from him. 

But that’s not quite right either, is it? It doesn’t feel right. Nothing ever feels right anymore. 

_”shit”_ he writes to Harry once, lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling at a stranger’s house when the clock’s just hit 2 in the morning. He’s emptied a good half or so of a vodka bottle. Someone’s making out in the sofa. The ceiling is plain fucking disgustingly white. 

_”??_ ” texts Harry, god knows where, god knows with who.

Louis should stop drinking, should stop trying to fill voids with the one thing that creates more voids. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But for now:

_”i fuckign miss u”_

No response.

 

 

_now_

A car zooms past, blasting a song he recognises. It takes him a second but oh, fucking shit, that hurts. Yep, that’s the pang of ache right there. Because it’s the one from the concert, the one he held his phone up for, when he thought he had the right to talk to Harry.

That one time when he actually admitted to a song going _’the way that Gucci looks on you, amazing; but nothing can compare to when you’re naked’_ spurred him on to call him up. Oh yeah, that’s the pain of embarrassment. Nothing else. 

_’Beautiful angel...’_

Suppose there’s been worse, anyways. Like that one time he thought he could win Harry back by being friends with someone else and thought he’d realise what he was missing out on. That same time when Harry went around greeting everyone in the room and all Louis got was a second of a stare, another second for his friend with a little smile and a nod, before he moved on… 

Friends come and go like the seasons. Fuck ’em. It is what it is, innit? 

Oh, and how about that one time when he wrote a text to Harry explaining it all. Explained how much he sucks for how he’s hurt him, a compiled list of things that made Louis’ heart break repeatedly. Exactly why he doesn’t want to see him either, as much as Harry can pretend it’s one-sided, trying to have control of the whole shit situation.

Things like, the way he makes Louis angrier than anyone else, for one. How long it takes him to make a point, how he’s always trying to be funny, which in turn makes it totally not. How dim he looks in high waisted pants. How attractive he looks in that lace blouse he wore once. The way he made Louis’ heart beat super fast when he texted something and the notification seemed even slightly suggestive, how he made his chest heavy and warm whenever he was near, how he's never wanted to kiss somoene so badly before. That he’s terrible, and the best heartache he’s ever felt, and that Louis was sorry for everything, and can they please go back to how things were—

Then carefully pressed his thumb on backspace until it was all gone. 

That one time. 

That one time, when Louis stumbled home to him, high from alcohol and low from heartache. His fingers were shaking from more than a nicotine withdrawal as he’d smoked up all his last cigarettes. It was raining too, just drizzling really, but Harry seemed to find a moment of empathy in that. Like the light in his eyes changed, just for a moment; that sweetness Louis had been drawn to and used to find sanctuary in. So he let him inside. 

Then the darkness in his eyes went back to match the lack of lights on inside. Then he was yelling at Louis. And then they were both yelling, because how could he show up here uninvited, when he’d been a shit person and avoiding him for months but Louis told Harry he’d been doing the same so who was he to talk, and the accusations just kept coming, and then they were kissing. 

And then they were on the sofa, pulling at each other’s hair, groaning into each other’s mouths, grinding their hips and clawing and pushing and spitting venom in between sharp intakes of breath or pressing each others’ lips hard together while fumbling for their zippers and belt buckles. 

Like it was all leading up to that. Like that was how they were meant to be. Finding their way back to each other and Louis left later that night, distinctly never bringing up the occasion. This anomaly. This one time thing. 

That wasn’t the first time. There was a party once, when Harry found Louis and was pissed, as was Louis, because they’d had a petty argument or whatever else, how it goes. And they went upstairs to solve in behind a locked bathroom door but Harry’s face was intense for other reasons than that he wanted to tear Louis apart. Well, that he wanted to tear him apart for other reasons than because he was furious with him...

And that wasn’t the first time either. It wasn’t the last. Not the only. 

Because Harry is an open book. A love poem waiting to be read, waiting to be kept and adored. 

And Louis had fallen for just that.

He takes a drag from his cigarette. It’s dark out, as dark as it gets in spring, and the lights are off in most buildings. Asleep like he should be too. He would have wanted to stand there with Harry just some months back, blowing smoke out over the city, have his arms around him like nothing mattered out in the world. 

Does the winter dream of the summer like he dreams of him on these dark nights?

He couldn’t tell you why, or even when it became so bad. In a way it felt like Harry had been there for so long, imagining life before he came into it would be like trying to remember a nightmare. 

And, he knows that’s deep. Stupidly, really, because he’s not about that love poem life, if he’s being completely honest. But there had just always been this strange pull towards Harry, see. A magnetic draw of sorts. Magical stardust and all. Sprinkles on top. Might it have been his charm, his drawl, that dimple you just want to press your thumb into; might it have been the proper comfort in just having him there. Harry was something secure, a safe and consistent point, something Louis soon became dependant on. As addicted as he became to Harry alone. 

But it became a problem. At least to Louis, it did, because in the beginning, it was a comfort of just always having him there as support. Waiting for Louis to finish a footie game so he could walk off with him or cheering him on in the meantime, waiting for each other to finish whatever horrid college- and later on even uni-related activity they were undergoing at the time so they didn’t have to be alone. 

It was a comfort of knowing exactly who to call or text when he needed someone, the comfort of having someone be so close. Someone who wore his heart on his sleeve (literally) and adored him just the same, and someone who would actually voice his feelings, too. 

They were more than just best friends at one point, maybe even passed as soulmates. Harry was his home. There was no doubt in the world about it. When things were rough, when Louis ran out of road… 

He was the home he always knew his way back to.

This comfort grew, which he knows it never should have been allowed to do. It turned into something different. Suddenly, it.

It meant something. 

Because it became associated with how Harry felt being traced under his fingertips. It became associated with the way his pulse felt against his palms, his hand in his, eyes on his, or simply his pale angelic look with those red cherry lips. Louis could go daydreaming a lot about those lips without ever really realising what he was doing, why he was doing it. 

And when he did, he was horrified. 

He knew it then, how his heart couldn’t go on beating like a steel hammer in his chest whenever he felt his heat, smelled his scent, or whenever he just _looked_ at him for too long, sleepy morning eyes or batting his eyelashes in the afternoon sun, or just him simply _being_ , just being. He didn’t want to go on feeling warm and dull inside, didn’t want to get that crazy rush, didn’t want to be dependant. Didn’t want to be angry whenever he saw Harry share his loveliness with someone else other than Louis. 

So. 

He became stiff and cold every time he touched him. Recoiling, sliding out of his grip. The nuances of his words and speech dropping to a single, flat, short, uncaring mumble as a response each time a word dropped from Harry’s lips. Actually, in the end, he recalls how he couldn’t think of a single response at all. 

And then the questions started coming. 

Careful, of course. And, frightened, Louis would hiss something back as an angry retort, or another question thrown right back at him. There was no other way to keep it a secret than to be angry, be distant. Drive him away. 

Slowly, slowly, Harry started to understand something was wrong, that Louis wasn’t the same. Didn’t want the same. 

At first he was angry.

And then he was sad.

And Louis didn’t want to see Harry sad. He never, ever wanted that, and knowing he was the reason made his stomach twist and his heart wrench. 

So he avoided him.

And for an entire half year, Harry went out of Louis’ way. Taking different routes, taking the long turns, or simply staring straight past each other, should they ever need to cross paths in the uni halls. Head down, not speaking. 

But sometimes, sometimes he would actually take a moment to look up at him.

Pondering. 

And Louis would divert his eyes. Because he never, ever had the answer.

He realises, now, what it all came down to, was how he didn’t want to be so hopelessly in love with a boy. This one stupid, silly, gross, absolutely wonderful and amazing and beautiful boy, and god was he in love with him. 

He was so in love with him.

 

 

then

He’s stepping out of the showers after the footie practice and tying his towel lazily around his waist when he stops so abruptly he almost slides on the wet tiles. 

Harry’s eyes are huge on him when Louis finally finds his voice. ”Oh! Haz!”

Maybe breaking his tail bone would have saved him this conversation. 

”Sorry! Sorry, I was just.” Harry turns around quickly, like he just snapped out of it, hands hovering over his ears as if he shouldn’t be hearing nor seeing this. ”Someone said you might still be in here, I wasn’t thinking.”

Louis’ blushing bright red, so he’s especially thankful Harry isn’t seeing him right now. ”Soz, taking some time. Grass stains and that.” He grips the knot in his towel hard. Gravity, please don’t fail him now.

”Yeah, I’ll uh, sorry, I’ll be outside.” Harry flails his arms like a weird backwards wave. ”No rush. I’ve got time. Sorry,” he says again before he steps out and lets the door to the locker room shut behind him. 

Louis stands frozen for a moment but - no, yeah, it is actually fucking freezing right now, except for his face that’s burning hot accompanied by that special heat-sensation going down to his crotch. 

Not today, Satan. 

He pads over to his bag and strips of his towel, followed by a very serious adult conversation with his semi of a semi about boundaries and house rules, luckily a mental one because, what the fuck. He dons a The Kinks t-shirt and some joggers, steps into his Vans and his coat and walks outside with his bag slung over his shoulder. 

”I’m literally so sorry,” is the first thing Harry says, genuinely apologetic. A deep blush has crept over his face. ”I don’t know what I was thinking. Someone said you’d like maybe be in there- I should have guessed, jesus, I’m so stupid.”

”It’s fine,” Louis says with a breathy laugh. It comes out as a cloud of white fog in the late autumn air, so he grabs his beanie to put over his still-wet hair. ”It’s a public locker room, you know. No biggie. You could very well have been naked too.”

He tenses when he says it, because he didn’t mean it like that. Years ago, they would have laughed about it because Harry would have got it was a joke. 

No one’s laughing now.

Louis looks up at him slowly, and Harry’s staring blankly at him, touching his lips. ”Didn’t mean it like that,” Louis clarifies. 

His stomach is, stupidly, twisting with arousal at the thought of what would have happened. What he’d have done if they were both naked in a steamy, deserted locker room. 

Something from a really bad porn plot, he’s sure. Nothing good about it.

”I know,” Harry says, finally. Finally breaking that eye contact. 

Louis watches him pinch at his plump bottom lip for what feels like decades of torture and all Hell’s flames before he comes up with something to say. ”Did you want anything, or?”

Witty. 

Harry shoves his hands down his pockets. Hm. Now it’s just stupidly obvious if he instantly looks away but, of course - Louis stupidly obviously looks straight ahead. ”Just, like.” Harry shrugs. ”How are you?”

Oh, not this shit again. This is always how he does it. 

He does things to piss Louis off, makes sure he sees it, then comes to plaster up the wounds like he’s such an angel and not the one that cut them open in the first place. Putting salt in them, more like. It still stings just as bad as every other time. 

”Fine,” Louis says. Fine, when he’s not constantly thinking about him, to be honest. When he’s not still aching for all sorts of different reasons. ”You?”

”Same,” Harry murmurs, voice small. 

Louis wants to kiss him so badly. 

Harry’s hair is growing down past his shoulders as he’s left it to just do its own thing by now, currently put up in a half-assed bun on top of his head, ears rosy. He’s got some weird, probably thrifted suede jacket on, too big on him, the black jeans too small. Beautiful. Like a strange little doe, an entity, here to haunt Louis’ existence for an eternity. So fucking beautiful. 

”You going anywhere?” 

Louis is surprised it’s himself asking this. 

Harry looks back, first confused, then skeptical. He squints. ”Not really.”

”Neither.”

Then Louis doesn’t say anything else. 

Harry does, though: ”Wanna walk to the bus?”

Louis involuntarily flashes the hint of a grin. Because, yeah, that was what was on the top of his head. Ever since Harry turned him down the first time, actually, those months ago. 

Then he starts walking and nods for Harry to come with. ”Giddy up then, Curly.”

Harry catches up to his side, silently (but Louis won’t look to know if he’s smiling too), and they walk over the path leading away from the pitch. The gravel crunches under their feet, cold, and Louis tries to focus on this gritty noise rather than Harry’s extreme presence next to him. 

Why does he smell like sweet oranges?

”You know The Killers?” Harry asks, forcedly slow like he’s been building the sentence in his head but tries to come off like he totally wasn’t. 

Harry knows Louis still listens to them on like a daily basis. He knows he knows, and this is stupid. ”I’m familiar.”

”They have a concert in Manchester, I was thinking-”

”Oh, yeah.” Louis accidentally cuts him off. ”I’m going.”

He realises too late the implications in Harry’s voice. What could have been, ah, the million pound question. 

What could have been, of them together, beers held high, bumping hips, swaying along to _Change Your Mind_ with smiles across their whole faces. 

”Ah, yeah,” says Harry, small. ”Course.”

Louis tugs his bag higher up his shoulder. He hates this. He hates the tension. 

”Why do you smell like oranges?”

Harry frowns suddenly. He almost stumbles in his hipster boots to look at him. ”It’s _apricot_ ,” he corrects, scandalized. ”Why do you smell like _jasmin?_ ”

”Excuse you, that’d be very manly man musk to you,” Louis retorts, referring to his shower gel that in fact has the label _jasmin_. ”Can’t believe this disrespect. Wait until my father hears about this.”

They’re walking over cobble stone and multicoloured leaves now, the bus stop in sight. He’ll end up missing Harry if he doesn’t suddenly not laugh at his teasing (and his uncanny references), if he doesn’t suddenly lecture him for whatever good reason-

Oh, hell, he’ll end up missing him anyway. 

But Harry does laugh - giggles, more like - and that moment of false hope alights once again in Louis’ stomach. ”Send my apologies to your jasmin shrubs then, Malfoy.”

”I very well shall, Potter,” Louis quips with the posh accent and all. They marathoned this film series together on their last christmas leave. ”They’re deeply offended. Almost as deep as your voice, actually.”

It’s an old joke, so overdone, and still they can’t stop smiling. Harry clears his throat before changing to a higher pitch: ”Nothing deep about me.”

”I bet you write some pretty deep dairy posts at night, mate,” Louis says, elbowing him playfully. ”Some deep conditioning for that lion mane of yours?”

”And deep-fried food is bad for you,” Harry retorts, pulling his hand out of his pocket to slap Louis’ arm away. 

Louis gawks. ”My! I’ll take that as a personal insult.”

Harry smiles innocently, nudges him. ”Deep Purple are insulted you didn’t bring them up,” he points out. 

It’s such old day banter, such fondness in Louis’ tummy he almost forgets that he’s mad at Harry, that he actually probably hates him. He’s thinking about other things that could be deep about this boy anyway. Things to do with those pouty lips and how wide he can open his mouth... 

Oh, well. 

They stop at the beat-down sign, not needing to read the time tables. Especially for right now, Louis couldn’t give less of a shit about the bus being late; time should rather stop moving, maybe for another decade or two. ”Find me at the bottom of the Deep Sea because that joke was so bad,” he settles for. 

”You started,” Harry whines, and Louis wants to slap him for his adorable childishness. 

”You continued,” he states, matter-of-factly. He pushes imaginary glasses up his nose. ”Takes three years of uni to acquire this knowledge, I’m afraid.”

Harry’s pulling that face Louis has labelled the absolutely smitten kitten face, vastly different from the cute frog one. It’s the face when he’s so gleeful at whatever shit Louis’ talking, he just stares at him with big eyes and a grin, waiting for the plot to escalate. ”I must have taken the wrong courses, what’d you study?”

”30 points Know Who Just Lost The Argument,” he says, tapping his temple. ”100 points Good Comedy. This was when you took the Excessive Hipster Band Knowledge one.”

Harry’s smiling so big, eyes equally big, and he’s about to speak - but suddenly someone calls his name. 

When Louis looks up, his heart drops. 

There’s a group of guys coming over waving, looking happily at Harry, either ignoring Louis or giving him skeptical glares in unison, not speaking but he knows just what they’re _thinking_. If Louis was an ostrich, he’d stick his head in the ground right about now. The ground at the moment happens to be asphalt, so there’s that. A deadly coma could be nice. 

”Hey, man, what’s up?” one of them says to Harry, Marcus from class actually, because Louis could as well not be existing right now. 

”Nothing much,” Harry smiles, which is just. Ouch. Ha. Fucking could as well have stomped on his heart, get it over with already. ”Where you headed off to?”

”Downtown, wanna go?”

And Harry looks happy. He just looks so happy. 

”Sure,” he chirps, and the group starts walking. Louis thinks for a split second Harry will just join in without a word, but then he turns, though he looks anything but apologetic. ”See you, Lou.”

Louis nods a goodbye, forces a smile. Then they’re off. 

Then Louis’ alone. 

Because apparently that’s how much his presence matters to Harry. 

He plops his earphones in on the bus, plays that one The Killers song all the way home. Plays it until he crashes face-first on the bed, until the tears on his pillow have dried, and then has to act normal for dinner. He might just succeed. They’re used to them eye bags by now. 

It just sucks. It does, everything, so much. All the time. Because apparently he’s not worth shit, and Harry just loves making this very clear for him. And all Louis wants is for him to pay his full attention to him like he used to. Like they used to. 

This goes on for weeks. 

Harry does seem to try to make it up to him a few times, or that’s what it feels like. Like Louis' a make-a-wish-kid or Harry's just doing him such a huge favour, he should be thankful he's even breathing in the same room as him.

”I’ve got friday night free,” is how he puts it once. 

They’re in the university and he slips down on the bench next to Louis, where he’s sat drowning out the noise of students with The Vaccines on in his earphones. Which is universal code for _do not fucking disturb_ , but sure, go off then. 

”And I’ve got a movie,” Harry continues, smiling kindly. ”One we haven’t actually seen about a dozen times.”

Louis just blinks at him at first. Because it’s kind of offensive how he lays it out like that, like he was expecting Louis to just be sitting around with nothing to do, waiting for him to reach out to him again. 

It’s just so stupid how that’s the actual truth. 

But Louis’ tired of waiting. He’s done crying over this, he is, he’s sick of holding on to things whether it’s people he should have shut out or grudges. The burning warmth of anger blooms in his stomach. 

”Oh, I’m good,” he puts flatly, only one earphone out. He’s white-knuckling his phone in his hand. 

Harry’s face drops, but Louis doesn’t let that affect him anymore. He doesn’t let it mirror in his own face. ”Oh, uh.” Awkward. It’s so awkward. ”I just figured- I mean, I know we haven’t been spending much time together.”

”Maybe that’s not all on you,” Louis points out, which speaks more than what he actually says. It’s not so much hey, bud, it’s not all your fault, it’s not you it’s me; it rather says hey, you actual dim idiot, I’ve been avoiding you too and for very good reasons. 

The earphone still in his ear is blaring _’to think, I’d hoped you’d be okay; now I can’t think of what to say’_.

There’s creases of discomfort on Harry’s forehead, mouth a tight line before he clicks his tongue. ”Right,” he says, because he gets it; he knows exactly what Louis just meant. ”Right.”

He gets up, but doesn’t walk away. Louis doesn’t look away from him. It’s coming. His attempt at a fuck-you right back. 

”You know what I like about Oliver?” Harry asks him, very rhetorically, and Louis barely even knows who the fuck that is. Some guy Harry’s been hanging out with, apparently; Louis’ not been paying too close attention with who exactly it is anymore. ”He’s not always trying to bring people down. He actually tries to be, like, nice and stuff, and not leave people in the dirt.” Louis barely even knows who the fuck this guy right in front of him is. ”Just a thought.”

Louis almost plops his earphone back in and goes back to mindlessly scrolling his phone, just to piss him off. He doesn’t. 

”Maybe another time, then,” Louis suggests instead, voice fake-promising. He’s become quite good at faking shit. ”Not feeling up for it right now is all. Don’t have to get all salty on me.”

Harry glares. He’s good at them glares. Louis must be glaring right back, and he’s got no intent to lose at yet another one of the wicked games they play. 

”Alright then,” Harry emits eventually, thoughtful. He bites his lip for a second, twiddling his fingers. ”Just text me.”

Louis fakes his best smile. ”I will.”

He fakes not caring when Harry turns his back on him without another word. But there’s no faking in his actual heart-felt caring about when Harry texts about his day. The what you do’s, random cute dog pics off the internet, or how Louis wants so badly to be the first to comment on how Harry looks in a new instagram post; the ones that make his heart skip a beat each time, looking like he does. But he never does. Sometimes he scrolls past. 

Sometimes he reads things, then take hours to respond. Days. Doesn’t follow up the questions, ends conversations. Harry ends up doing the same, then, which makes Louis give in and talk like normal while now _Harry’s_ the one acting distant. 

It’s like some sort of mutual punishment, some sort of sick mind game, a game of power, a constant. Never-ending.

He still hasn't figured it out. He can't fucking figure them out.

He keeps going out alone, then. Drinking to fill the hole in his heart, to numb the pain, if you will. Because acting like everything is so fucking great like this is the perfect illusion for him to almost start to believe it himself. Maybe it's better this way.

There’s a girl he meets at a bar once, whose eyes linger on him particularly long. 

In turn, Louis’ eyes linger equally as long. 

Her name’s Michelle and she’s nice, too, picket fence kind of sweet girl he’d have been friends with back home. So while flirting may not be a strong trait in him, at least he can banter with her, say the stuff that he at least knows would have made Harry smile. 

Playing every friendship-card he’s ever had up his sleeve, because obviously that’s the only base he got to with Harry, anyway. 

It’s the start of something so horrible, because he starts seeing this girl a lot, devotes most of his awake time to her actually. This isn’t the horrible bit. This bit is the happiest he’s been in months. 

They text, she comes over to his room; his mum even starts acting skeptical, wonders if maybe they shouldn’t keep the door ajar, so that Louis swears she just wants in on his taste in films since this is a lot of what they do in there other than just like chilling and talking. He learns she just broke up with her boyfriend, learns that she really likes posting pictures of her and Louis together on social medias where said boyfriend still follows her. A fascinating study in jealousy, and Louis can’t complain. He lets her take him under her wings and does the very fucking same. 

But, instead of luring Harry back - which. Which somehow, for some idiotic reason was always burning in the back of his mind, or just like, wanting to catch his attention for even a second. Make him burn like Louis’ burning whenever he hangs out with someone else… 

Instead, it pushes him further away. While Louis would be watching for his reaction as he’d stand so close to Michelle, bumping into Harry sometimes even to put his arm around her -

All Harry ever looked was nonchalant. Gritting his teeth, sometimes, actually. Sometimes with his brows set low, like- like some sort of strange glare. Angry, almost. Annoyed. 

And Louis can’t understand it. Like, he just, can’t understand why it doesn’t make him _talk_ to him again. Why it doesn’t make him _care_ , because this always worked on Louis. This always made Louis want him back. 

He doesn’t want him back, then. That’s all there is. Simple. He’s just angry, and Louis’ made it worse. 

Louis messed them up. 

Louis’ just malicious. 

He rides it for a couple more weeks, because Michelle is just a really good pal, you know? She’s good to him in a time of need, unlike some other dickheads Louis used to know. Some dickheads he should stop devoting time to. He thinks he’s good to her too, having just ended a long relationship and it just feels nice, overall, to feel needed at the same time as you need the other person. 

But as soon as it seems it’s starting to go somewhere, when she goes for the first drunken kiss - Louis shuts it down immediately. Doesn’t want to lead her on and hurt her, obviously; he never intended it for it to go any further than friendship anyway. He tells her they should just be friends like they already are. 

She’s upset though, which wasn’t part of his calculations. She leaves. She tells her friends Louis’ an asshole. 

As-fucking-if, Louis wants to scoff at her. It’s _Harry_ that’s-

Oh, yeah, he’s still thinking about him. He did just, when you boil it all down, make friends with someone because of him, because Louis only really cares about Harry. Because Louis really _hates_ Harry. Ah, yeah, that makes total sense. He can totally explain this to her. 

So he rolls with the punches, then. He knows the gossip must reach Harry. There’s just the fact, that there’s one branch of it that suggests as explanation that Louis can’t get it up, which in turn… branches off into suggesting Louis is _gay_... 

Which is just, a particular heart throbber. Yup, that’s a strong one. Doesn’t make him lose sleep or anything.

Because it’s not like he hasn’t considered it. 

It’s not like that is the only thing in the world making perfect sense. 

Because he’s never liked girls like that. He’s never felt what other boys felt, friends growing up or in the films. He thinks he knows what it means that he never cared for the sexy office worker in Love, Actually; even the cute assistant of the president he never related to. 

That sweet, laid-back, passionate writer guy, though, he kind of wanted all for himself. (And do we even get started on Channing Tatum in Dear John? Ryan Gosling in the Notebook? Are we sensing a theme in who made these obviously brilliant movie-picks?)

Louis’ gay. He’s almost 21 years old and he’s just barely accepted it himself. 

”Hey,” a guy says once, just outside of class when Louis’ about to head home. 

He stops, but knows this isn’t going to be a big moment of any sort. It’s not going to be like when a curly-haired idiot searched out for him randomly and turned his life to shit. 

But it takes him a moment to realise the guy's not talking to him. Although maybe he wanted to get his attention. 

Harry stands in front of this dude, someone Louis would have taken for being one of his cool friends if it wasn’t for how small Harry’s looking. How big his eyes are. Something isn’t right. 

Louis turns, tries to blend into the background and just observe. He’s not up for talking to Harry right now, or like, ever again. Just wants to… check. 

”What?” Harry replies, and the guy grins. 

”Is it true? The rumors?”

Louis notices people around them now, a good dozen of them, listening too. Some are giggling. Sneering. Some are trying to get him to shush. 

This percentage is however significantly lower. 

”About Tomlinson,” he continues when Harry doesn’t say anything else, and Louis’ breath leaves his lungs. Someone turns to look at him, but all he can see is Harry. Harry’s face. 

Harry is _horrified_. 

And Louis doesn’t know what to say. He can’t just pipe in, because nothing he can say will deny anything. This bitch could be talking about if it’s true he ditched the nicest girl in the world, if he just cheated on his test - but he’s pretty sure he knows what this is about. The rumours of that one branch. It’s the only thing someone would ask a seeming best friend about. 

And the one thing they teach you is: tell the truth, because someone will always be able to tell if you’re lying, or you say nothing at all. 

Harry stares blankly. There’s a huge discomforting feeling in Louis’ stomach. 

”So they are?” The guy scoffs, not even a footballer type, just some lanky loser, trying to get some cred. ”You two love taking it up the arse?”

Louis’ whole world falls apart like the sound of a balloon popping. 

Actually, it’s just the people bursting out laughing. 

Harry goes white as a sheet, still can’t speak. Doesn’t look like he can even _breathe_. 

”That’s cute,” the guy laughs, but Louis mostly hears a ringing noise, staring at the ground, wondering if he’s about to faint. ”This why you’re always hanging out with my boys. I’m sure they’ll be so happy to hear about this, that their little buddy is just trying to get with them-”

”Shut the fuck up.”

The guys turns to Louis. 

”Oh hey, Tomlinson,” he greets, tilts his head. Harry’s eyes go flicking between both of them. ”We were just talking about you, man. Just got some _great_ news.”

Louis puts on his best fake smile. ”Shame your own life isn’t interesting enough, innit?”

He scoffs dryly. ”Shame _you_ couldn’t show some respect to Michelle.” Ah, because of course he’s friends with her, or maybe he’s just trying to impress her or something; Louis’ been there. This guy just thinks he’s seeking his rightful revenge. ”What’s your problem, dude?”

”We weren’t _dating_ ,” Louis exclaims, ”and I didn’t think she’d be hurt; is that so hard to get into that thick skull of yours?” He takes a daring step closer. ”Maybe _you’re_ the one that needs a good dick-riding to get that brain up and running again, eh? I can make a good recommendation.”

His eyes go wide. ”You step the hell back,” he quips, but makes no indication of actually fighting. ”I’m not interested in you, mate, I’ll tell you right now. Your oversexual homo ass can stay far away from me.”

Louis grits his teeth. _Don’t test your luck. Don’t test your fucking luck._

The guy towers over him. ”Oh, you heard me. Would prefer if you never touched me with those manky hands of yours. You jerked some guy off with those hands? Or did you take it in that smartass mouth? ” He sneers, glances at Harry. ”Who was it?” 

Louis bursts off, but makes sure to properly push the guy in the chest to get out of the circle of people, so hard he hits the wall behind him. 

Louis comes up in his face, fuelled by the suddenly mortified expression on his face. ”Don’t flatter yourself, you busted-face loser,” he spits, pointing a finger in his face, ”I’d touch you however much I damn well fucking _please_ if I’d want to push you off a building but, unfortunately for you, _pal,_ you’re not my fucking type either.”

He storms out of the school to the sound of gasps, more laughter, a tiny applause. He can’t even revel in the victory. He has to _leave_. 

He all but rushes through backstreets home, head bent down to hide the shame and the stinging in his eyes. He can’t believe it just happened. The coming out thing. Because it didn’t even have to be true, just these rumors people made up to explain why he didn’t like the loveliest girl in the world in the romantic way. 

But he couldn’t deny it. He likes guys. He just admitted he likes guys, he likes _one guy in particular_ and oh god, oh fucking shit. 

He finally makes it and is about to walk inside, about to set foot on the steps and enter the sanctuary— 

”Hey,” says Harry, breathless, and Louis freezes. 

Thing is, he already knows. He knows _Harry_ knows, and now Louis’ not responding, standing with his jaw set and staring at a particularly interesting blank spot on the ground. So now Harry knows Louis knows Harry knows, which Louis already knew, _ugh!_

They’re alone outside of the’ house, and it hits Louis… how did he get here? It’s as if he’d just like, ran after him home, followed him over fences and through bushes or maybe took the bus to the other side of town than where his own house is, just on a whim - as if he’d actually do that, that’s such a crazy thought, why would he ever do that? 

Why did he? Why did he run after him?

Harry tilts his head at him, and he looks so sympathetic. Why does he look so sympathetic? He almost seems to be about to reach his hand out, speaks softly. ”Are you-”

”Don’t,” Louis interrupts, because they haven’t talked for a few days, and this is the only thing that springs to mind. Just don’t. _Don’t come here again with your psychology,_ he thinks, blood boiling; _your always-making-me-feel-better-despite-the-problem-being-you._

Him, him, him. It’s always him. It’s always been just him. 

He’s bound to, though. As much as he tries not to, Louis always lets him. 

”Oh.” He shrinks, only just a little. ”I just- I’m a bit confused, obviously, why all this just happened. He even said sorry to me when you left so I think you scared him off the uh, the homophobic behaviour a bit. But I, I just wanted to say—”

”I don’t care.” This is a lie. He cares so very much about everything. ”I literally can’t give less of a shit, Harry.”

He keeps staring at the ground until he realises his defeat, because he can feel eyes boring into him, willing him to move. And so he looks up at Harry, head still bent, like a scared dog levelling with a big bad wolf, or something. Like he’s small; inferior. 

But Harry’s not about to huff and puff his house down. Harry’s not bad and Louis’ not inferior. 

Harry’s just trying to read him, which he unfortunately does so very well. 

Harry looks about ready to pull him to his chest. 

This makes Louis’ own chest constrict. He must have bags under his eyes, must look pale and gaunt and have stubble; the unattractive kind at that, mind you, the insomnia and I-can’t-take-care-of-myself-anymore kind. Nothing artful about his dishevelment, about his sleep deprivation and deep-rooted anxiety. 

So why is Harry still looking at him like he hung the fucking moon?

”Louis,” he states, and it’s the softest whisper. 

No one’s in the street, and Louis knows no one is inside his house to peek between the curtains. They’re alone. Oh, god, they’re alone. 

Louis closes his eyes. He’s so tired, fuck is he fucking exhausted. His throat bobs when he swallows a knot in his throat but he doesn’t say anything. Harry’s name burns on his tongue like a pill, to tell him to leave, to stop bothering him; but he doesn’t open his mouth. 

And so, he lets him in. 

Harry sees all his weaknesses, right there in that moment. Because Louis can hide his fear with hard words. Can cover it in layers of angry glares and a guarded stance. He doesn’t. He just stands there. 

And, when he breathes out, Harry breathes him right back in. 

”Oh, Louis,” Harry repeats, but pitying now, like Louis is sick and he wants to take care of him. And Louis doesn’t want to be vulnerable. He doesn’t need taking care of. 

He’d let him, though, is the thing. If he was a better person, he would. 

If he didn’t hate himself so much, if he didn’t hate the fact he likes boys or rather the fact he likes _Harry_ of all people - he would. 

He doesn’t. What happens instead is, Louis opens his eyes and in one swift motion raises both his arms, so that without even a second of consideration, he pushes Harry backwards as hard as he can muster. 

”Won’t you ever just fuck off?” is what comes out in a shaky yell rather than the soft apologies he had on his tongue just a second ago, much to his own surprise, his own dismay because like _shit, come back, I’m so fucking sorry no oh god please don’t go_. ”Can you never leave me alone?!”

As hard as he can muster ends up not being hard at all. Because he couldn’t ever hurt Harry. 

He just hurt someone who hurt Harry, for crying out loud. He cares so fucking much for him. 

So he finds his balance, only staggers a little. Stares a little more where he’s now hunched over. Louis drops his arms and stares right back at him. 

”I can’t”, Harry decides, determinedly, and an imaginary audience gasps all around. He’s shaking his head as Louis hears his pulse in his ears. ”You know why.”

 

 

_now_

He’s startled when the door suddenly opens behind him. He’d be lying if he said the sight of Harry still makes his heart do summersaults. He can’t even do summersaults. 

Being in love makes you do crazy things, huh. 

But he’s not in love, he stubbornly tells himself. They’re not in love. They never were. 

He’s so beautiful though. In his too-far-unbuttoned shirt, his high waisted trousers. Black on black on black and sure to make Louis lose at least the tiniest bit of sanity. 

He doesn’t know what to say at first, lost in his colour of eyes, confused about whether to be angry or happy. 

”Hey,” says Harry instead, head low, like it only just hit him he’s stumbled right out into Louis’ space. ”Sorry, I should-”

”No,” Louis quips, because no, he shouldn’t leave. Louis doesn’t want him to go. ”It’s whatever. Hi. I saw you.”

”Yeah, uh. I saw that you did.” What’s this now? There’s a faint smirk on his face. ”Never been too good at spying.”

If they were actually friends, Louis might just laugh, and they’d tell the story of how Louis tried to deadass hide behind his phone while totally not glancing straight over it at Harry in school, at parties and hangouts, more than just once. Happened a lot actually. Or like that glare Harry would give, all across the room, when Louis could tell he was getting to him. That head tilted forward, low brows look, trying to force death upon whoever Louis was talking to. It was so hard to miss, even if he couldn’t understand it and no less accept it at first; it was so painfully obvious. It’s like he did it on purpose even though he always claimed he didn’t. 

They’re not friends, though. They’re not laughing. 

But they’re both thinking it, both thinking about how dependent they were on each other, how protective. How they needed each other so much at some point, but something went so wrong. Someone gave up. Someone pissed off. 

Fuck this. Fuck Harry. Fuck fake friends. 

Louis shrugs his shoulders. ”Guess not.”

Harry sucks on his cheek and purses his lips. He sets his eyes on the ground and takes a weary step forward. ”Are you mad?”

Louis almost scoffs. No, actually, he totally lets it out, because he doesn’t need to put on a polite demeanor for Harry. Not anymore, he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve any of his efforts. 

It’s just that it’s so fucking typical of him. Trying to be the meddler when he’s the problem. Him. Him with his girl and their perfect little bubble. Not Louis. Not what they-

_Don’t_ have. 

What they never had. 

”You could say that,” he spits, crossing his arms and tapping ash off his cigarette. ”Would be a bit of an understatement there but yeah, yeah.”

Harry looks as if he’s been burnt. ”Oh.” Then he looks up. Looks him right in his eyes. ”Yeah, I know.”

Fuck those eyes. 

Fuck. Those. _Eyes_.

Louis grits his teeth, tries to not act on any of the churning emotions within him. He wants to punch, spit and claw. He wants to surge forward and either push Harry away or wrap him in his arms. Bury his face in the crook of his neck, to cry, or to kiss, suck and bite. 

Those eyes are green like the mediterranean ocean and Louis is _drowning_. 

They've spent six years together. That’s a long time for some people, especially considering they weren’t ever really together. So it was a long time to be getting to know each other inside out, all the hours spent studying when really they were messing around and bantering, laughing and being happy, slowly becoming each other’s first pick, subsequently becoming their only. 

It was a long time folded in the back of cars, sneaking in through backdoors; screaming and throwing each other’s shit out, that time Harry slapped him across the face when he tried to really leave; the first accidental loving pet names shared against each other’s lips. The many more to follow. 

And Louis used to believe it, too. Used to believe it when he caressed his hair and said he wished they should be together, four years ago when Louis was only 20, two years ago when he was still feeling the same thing. Sometimes he even thinks he misses hearing it. 

Does he tell the same lies to her?

Does he say _I hate you_ to anyone with the same passion?

He turns his head away, taking another drag. ”Yeah,” he states, as if it resolves anything. He’s mad. He’s pretty sure he’s mad. What else is there to discuss?

”I was just thinking-” But Harry stops himself, scratching around his hair. 

Louis can’t help but twitch, trying so hard to not look his way. 

Harry seems to consider it, what he’s really thinking, feel the way the words taste in his mouth. The way they make sense in his brain, if they do at all. ”I’ve been thinking uh, a lot, actually, and then I saw you tonight-”

”Do you want an award for having a normally functioning brain or summat?”

It almost scolds him how much it reminds him of teasing when they were young, when they were still okay with each other and every word didn’t lead to an argument. Harry doesn’t get mad now though. Harry breaks into a sheepish smile. 

”And then I couldn’t stop looking,” is how he continues, making Louis’ breath slow, imagining his secret glances over his company’s shoulder. ”And I was just thinking… My flat’s just about down the street.”

Louis looks back at him. Harry’s dead serious, and he can tell, because he can tell a lot of things about this boy. When he’s angry, when he’s sad. When he’s honest, when he’s filled to the brim with desire. He knows him like the back of his hand, because he was his whole world at one point, but he isn’t part of his anymore. 

”And your girlfriend?”

Harry _laughs_. ”Not my girlfriend,” he says, easy. ”Nothing of the like. Just a friend, who just found herself a nice hunky type back there.” He grins, the typical Harry grin. ”Not very interested in the girls, if you didn’t know.”

It hits him then. 

He’s not angry at him. Harry’s right here in front of him, offering, hatchet buried so deep it’s deeper than the Deep Sea and deeper than that voice of his and deep fried food and - was he ever angry? Was that icy burning feeling ever anger?

All he knows is he’s just really fucking jealous. Not of Harry, not for always winning, for always being a better person. Just jealous at whoever gets to touch him like he used to be able to. 

He’s so jealous of whoever gets to call him their own. 

And so fucking sad that it’s not him. 

”Ah.” Louis flicks his cigarette on the ground. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and Harry cocks his hip expectantly. This makes Louis’ eyes divert to the place of movement, which, of course. Leads to other things. 

When his eyes slowly drift back up his body, Harry’s smirking with his teeth biting into his lip, eyes sparkling. 

Maybe he just said he hated him because he knew Harry would never love him back. 

And, he’s still daydreaming about them lips on his body. So.

 

 

then

They crash into his house like so many times before, only this time, Louis’ boiling with so many emotions at once he can barely get the door shut before he presses Harry up against it, kissing him hard and tasting his bubblegum-flavoured lips. 

He’s not entirely sure what he’s thinking, what either of them are, if he’s completely honest. All he knows is he needs to get Harry out of these tight-as-fuck trousers one way or another. 

Harry’s pulling on his hair already, tugging it enough to force out muffled groans from Louis that get lost between their lips. Even the sting of it goes straight to his dick when it’s Harry’s slender fingers on his skin, his blunt nails digging into his hip, his teeth on his lip. He slots his knee between Harry’s thighs in response, because god, he needs it. He _needs_ it. 

The sounds he makes him create from that are worth writing love songs about. He loves how responsive he is to everything Louis does. How he’s just as done for as Louis is. 

He tugs him with him to a faint whine of complaint, walks them backwards to the sofa, lips connected, hands on each other, and when the back of Louis’ legs his the sofa and buck so that Harry’s on top of him, he doesn’t really mind. Hey, it could be interesting. 

Because touching him feels like writing poetry. Kissing him feels like finding his way home. 

Harry disconnects himself from sucking on his lower lip only to move in a trail of butterfly kisses down past his jaw, cherishing his neck then sucking determinedly over his pulse point until Louis is gasping for air and grasping for sanity with his fingers buried in the back of his white T-shirt. 

Harry’s on all fours on top of him, though his body is gradually sinking lower, gradually leaving less space of them that’s untouched by the other. ”I don’t top,” comes his muffled voice against Louis’ neck, and Louis has to laugh. 

”Didn’t expect you to,” he gruffs, his other hand travelling down his waist and up again, sliding the hem of his shirt with him. 

Harry seems to still a bit, plump lips still brushing his skin. ”Oh.”

”Not what I-” Louis stops himself, stares up at the ceiling for a second. ”No, none of that.” Louis doesn’t exactly _bottom_ either, so that would be a bad combo. He curls his fingers to scratch into his skin. ”I wanna be inside you.”

Now, Harry shudders. He gasps before he finds the words. ” _Oh_.”

Or, the _word_. Same, to be honest. He can’t believe he just admitted that out loud. 

Kind of can’t believe they’re currently on top of each other like it’s perfect science either. Rocket science, was it? But he still hasn’t figured them out. 

”Have you- before?” he asks instead, trying to move on, rolls his hips a little. 

Harry hums, a little embarrassed. He returns to sucking on his collarbones, like making up for it. That he’s done it before, been with a guy, maybe experimented. 

As if he should have saved it for Louis. 

As if. As fucking if. 

He untangles his hand from Harry’s shirt and slides it down, over the dip of his back, the miles of tan, smooth skin until he can slip them underneath his waistband, making Harry inhale sharply against his skin. 

Harry shifts, and he’s suddenly sitting right on top of his cock. It’s throbbing already, and his own presses hard against Louis’ tummy, his lips hot and wet on his neck. Oh, yep, he’ll be getting what he wants. 

”We don’t- have to.” He’s finding it hard to breathe already, breath high in his lungs, Harry rocking his little body low on his hips. ”Can just. This.”

He definitely left his brain at the door. 

Harry’s started kissing his neck again, adorning it with red marks or feather-light kisses that makes Louis’ dick twitch in his pants. ”I want to.”

Has he been waiting for this? Has he been waiting, like Louis has?

He pushes his hand down, successfully grabbing Harry’s ass from over his boxers. Squeezing. Harry _bites_ him. ” _Fuck-_ I know. I know, I just. What are we doing, exactly?”

”Don’t speak,” Harry begs then, and he sits back up, cock lined up with Louis’ through their thick layers of clothing, but it still makes Louis’ head spin. ”Don’t say anything. Please grind against me.”

Louis swallows. He thinks he might explode. Because Harry wants this as badly as him; he’s as horny for him as Louis is, now pulling him back down to his lips by the collar of his shirt, and rolling his hips up to meet Harry’s with shared, throaty moans. 

He puts his other hand right where it belongs, which is right next to his other one and he squeezes his ass while they grind their hips together. It’s rough against Harry’s jeans, even rough against his own soft joggers, but it still feels like heaven, feels like this is how it’s meant to be. 

Harry kisses him like it’s oxygen after you’ve been under water for too long. 

He does until he breaks away with a sloppy noise, his hand going down Louis’ body. It brushes his tummy where his shirt has ridden up and Louis only realises what’s happening when his body involuntarily flinches as Harry’s fingers go dipping into the front of his joggers, like - _oh, fuck_.

Harry’s eyes are immediately on him, checking so he’s okay and Louis must _look_ as much as he _feels_ like the dictionary definition of consensual because Harry’s hand slips past the waistband, cupping him through his boxers. Louis’ head rolls back. 

He arches his hips into the touch, hissing because he doesn’t know what the hell the English language is, generally. 

”That’s okay?” Harry asks in a murmur, against his jaw now, working wonders with those skilled fingers where they go massaging and rubbing _just right_. ”Is this- I’m sorry, am I being—?”

”Don’t fucking stop,” Louis gruffs, slides his hands up his body and under his shirt. How can muscles feel so good? They do. Everything about Harry feels so fucking good. ”I swear to god, if you stop-”

Harry plants a wet kiss to his neck, slips his hand into his boxers and takes his dick out. 

If this is a sin, then Louis wants to burn. 

His breath hitches and it comes out in a bitten-back, absolutely _whimpery_ moan, must be scratching Harry at this point too, clawing at his back because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do when Harry’s large hand is wrapping around his entire length like this. Somewhere deep in his possessive mind he’s hoping he’ll be leaving tell-tale marks and lines and welts. His signature, all over him, like Harry’s own marking his skin too. 

”Just tell me no,” Harry starts again, breathless, takes his hand up to his mouth just for a second to spit into it, then brings it back down to jerk Louis off to slick sounds. And this. This has been part of Louis’ wet dreams for the past two years or so, and he’s definitely not breathing like he should. ”Tell me to stop and I will. I don’t want to, like…”

Somewhere distantly Louis registers him moving away, his heat displacing itself, so that his hands fall helplessly to the side in the sofa as they slide off his back. He looks down his body to see Harry’s eyes, big and glossy, staring back at him from where he’s suddenly leaned over his crotch, lips hovering over him all red and pouty. 

”Don’t want to make you, um…” He licks at his leaking cockhead, a tiny, innocent kitten-lick. ”Make you uncomfortable.”

Louis absolutely loses it. 

He throws his arm over his eyes, and tries _so fucking hard_ to not buck his hips again. ”Harry-”

Then he doesn’t know what to say. Just, Harry. 

Harry, Harry, Harry. 

Harry hums, licking around the head, swirling his tongue. He’s brilliant. Fuck, he’s absolutely amazing, the wet dream version of him can’t even measure up, none of his deepest fantasies ever did him as good as this. 

He takes him down further, sinking down as far as he can go then back up as he’s twisting his hands around his shaft, sucks on his head like a fucking popsicle and oh my god, oh my _god_ look at him drooling down those sinfully red lips. Putting everything into blowing him, fucking _cherishing_ him, like— 

”God, I love your dick,” Harry whispers suddenly, or maybe Louis just dreams it up. Maybe he’s in a constant state in-between consciousness and motherfucking orgasm-heaven. 

This is bad, he knows it is. They probably shouldn’t haven’t gone this far at all. It has to be a no-stings-attached thing, this whole situation, because they’re not even friends with benefits like this, because they’re not even _friends_.

Then why can’t they keep their hands off each other? Why does it feel so right and why is it mutual? If it’s so fucking bad, then why does it feel _so fucking good?_

And he could still leave. He could keep his self respect and pretend he was never in fact desperately crushing on his best friend, just walk out the door, never talk about it again. Or he could stay, get off. Find out what Harry sounds like when he comes like he’s been dreaming about for years. 

Either the case, this is not going to end well.

 

 

_now_

“Fuck, baby, look at that.”

He’s three fingers in. Louis is; rough, skilled fingers curling into him and Harry, panting, is just bouncing on them and listening to him ramble on. 

Not that he’s able to do much else, to be honest, and he couldn’t possibly stand just lying down and _besides_ , Louis fucking _adores_ the way his long, messy curls fall over his sweat-glistening face, over his raw-bitten lip and his eyebrows, knitted together in the concentration of trying to make Louis’ fingers hit just right. Trying to make it feel better than anyone has ever made it feel before. 

His eyes are glazed over, too, in the state Louis has only ever seen himself be able to get him into before. Maybe… Maybe few too many times before.

“Yeah”, Louis breathes then, continues his ramble in his own absolute awe, pumping his fingers the best he still can. Going for four. They’ve only done four one time prior to tonight. “Taking it so well. Can’t believe you, sometimes. So amazing.”

Harry huffs a laugh at the compliments, and Louis is a bit too dazed to think of some other witty thing to tell him, like how he’s usually the one going on and on about Louis being good for him, but for other reasons. 

Reasons like, when he’s stuffed full of him, thrusted repeatedly into the mattress, stomach bulging, rutting the bed into the wall until everyone can hear how well he’s fucking him—

But it’s been a while, and Louis has a lot of words on his mind, albeit not witty, but uncharacteristically genuine. Maybe he just kind of wanted to lose control. 

Here, in Harry’s bed, in Harry’s flat; not wanting to think about the past nor the future, because there’s just too many questions involved with just too little answers, isn’t there now?

“Come on,” Harry gruffs, finally, _finally_ speaking and Louis feels relieved and infatuated all the same. Rolling his hips, crotches brushing together where he’s planted on his thighs, Louis still sort of feels just as strongly within himself how he wants to listen to that voice all day fucking long. “Come on. I’m ready.”

“Yeah? Want four?” Louis asks, voice broken and rough from some much needed cock-sucking earlier, already circling him with his pinky. “You’ll tell me no if you change your mind, yeah?”

“Lou, it’s your bloody pinky, do you honestly expect me to-” His face scrunches up, cut off when Louis thrusts it in but, brave boy he is, he regains his sanity, “be a pixie, or something?”

“A pixie?” Louis laughs. There’s confusion mixed with astonishment in Harry’s eyes. That stupid fucking beautiful frog face, how Louis wishes he didn’t react to it with such endearment. “Why, I think I’d quite like that.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, daring, maybe thinks he’ll take it back - but Louis just smirks back at him, mischevious. And Harry smacks his arm.

“Bet you would”, he mutters, making Louis exhale a laugh back at him. Fuck, though. He needs to stretch him like this more often. 

Or, not. Absolutely shouldn’t, in fact. They should really try to stop these sort of things from happening. 

Why do they keep happening?

He slides his fingers in all the way, so tight, but so, so hot. “You know I wouldn’t shame your kinks, young Harold,” he muses, voice rough but still playful. 

Harry raises an eyebrow quickly. “No?”

Louis traces his free hand up the side of Harry’s face, runs his thumb over his plump, wet lower lip; it makes his eyes flutter shut. He caresses his cheek, the facial hair he’s started to let grow but he’s still so soft under his hand, still like he used to always be. 

Harry loses himself in the touch, cheeks having developed a deep blush by now. When Louis trails his hand back down his face and down to his shoulders, his eyes blink open, having gone glossy and dark and Louis’ cock is absolutely _aching_ to make him even more flustered. 

“Never,” Louis replies, shaking his head. ”After all, I must have that filthy mind of yours to thank for this lovely situation we find ourselves in, don’t I now?”

That’s a lie. It’s a blaming-it-on-Harry, a selfish way to stay above water because he doesn’t get it, doesn’t quite grasp that he’s still here after all these years. That he keeps coming back to him. That everything always comes back to Harry. 

Harry’s eyebrows draw together and he pouts a bit. Frog face, frog face, beautiful frog face. “ _Heeey_ ”, he drawls, grabbing Louis’ bicep; curls his fingers around the inked deer and heart. “You’re mean. I’ve been good.”

And he might as well have grabbed his actual heart. 

Louis shrugs a shoulder. “What’s good is subjective,” he states, ever the conversationalist. 

Harry smiles. He circles the heart with his thumb, safe under his touch. (Why didn’t Louis ever let him have his actual heart?) “Promise,” he murmurs. ”No filth.” There’s something so soft in his green, doe eyes, like a billion emotions bundled up to tear down Louis’ harsh exterior bit by bit. “Only been thinking good things about you.”

Oh, god, it must be dangerous to be so easily infatuated by someone. 

Louis goes for grabbing the ship on Harry’s bicep, his wrist with his own rope one to go with it still trapped beneath him. He doesn’t know what to say. Few people manage to actually render him speechless. 

Harry starts to lean himself down over him, pulling out to shift positions. Louis’ fringe, already a bit of a tousled up mess, hangs in front of his eyes but he can still feel the gaze of Harry’s wild eyes burning into him, watching him closely as he moves. 

He leans forward a bit further, Louis’ hand staying in its place as his fingers slip out of him. Harry’s holding his breath. Louis holds him steadier as he gets the idea and lines himself up with him, grabs his dick with his now free hand and Harry moves backwards again, breathes out with a tiny whine as he starts to slowly sink down on his length.

He’d forgotten how amazing he feels - somehow, some way, even though it’s only been a few months - as well as how he has suddenly successfully forgotten that the English language is a thing. 

But by the time Harry’s properly sitting in his lap with his cock fully inside, stops to adjust while Louis tries to just _breathe_ , he kind of at least sort of remembers who he is. “Said you’ve been thinking about me?”

Harry grins sheepishly, grabbing ahold of his shoulders instead. He nods. “Good things, remember?”

“Course, that’s why I’m interested.” Harry slowly moves up and forward, then back down. It’s not as tight, shouldn’t hurt, not with all the much glorious prepping he very happily agreed to, but he just feels so amazing. It’s so hard to remain still, not just start going crazy and rough with his thrusts. Harry might just be spending the next few days just trying to _walk_ properly, which - ha, funny that, memories and what have you. Things they'd joke about. Happy days. “I don’t exactly hear from you much anymore.”

Harry keeps moving, adjusting. Louis’ hands trail his skin, up his back and then down again, rounding his ass. He can tell when Harry tries to not visibly shudder, which is because he knows he shouldn’t feel so intoxicated by such simple touches. 

It happens, though. _Things_ , they tend to just, _happen_. 

“It’s, like, a bit hard when you don’t pick up my calls, and stuff.”

Right. So he might have cancelled a few, or a dozen. But right now he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know the person that did that, doesn’t even know what got him here, in this rendezvous of a room, Harry riding his fucking dick like it’s the only thing that makes Louis feel okay anymore. 

Some strange magnetic pull, it must be. If Harry is positive, Louis is negative, drawn together by laws of nature and doomed to forever repeat the same routine. There’s just no other logical explanation to why this keeps happening.

So Louis has no answer. Instead he thrusts his hips once, sharply, and Harry makes a hiccupy noise. 

He turns around a bit, grabs Louis legs from behind his knees to prep them up with the knees almost against his back. He looks back into Louis’ eyes. Serious. But daring. Louis takes strength from his bent legs, and thrusts slowly and deeply into him. 

Harry can’t seem to suppress the moan it forces out of him.

His pace is sloppy at first, uneven and slow, but he’d like to think his hands make up for it in the way they trace his body again, stroking reassuringly over his shoulder blades down to his hips while Harry just grabs tighter around his bicep, the other one fumbling for the headboard.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry chokes out then, like it’s been on the tip of his tongue the entirety of the time.

Like it’s the most truest thing in the world.

“Missed you too,” Louis has to admit, almost bashfully so, but rubs his hands over his arm to let him know he means it. Just can’t say it well enough. Just can’t put into words what it is he does to him.

“You look so good,” Harry drawls, face in pure ecstasy; beautiful angel. ”Christ. You _feel_ good, too.” Louis gruffs a moan, thrusts a bit faster, angling differently. “I’m gonna come so fast if you keep looking like you do.”

Louis isn’t even doing anything out of the ordinary here, but this is what sort of hits him every time. Harry is as infatuated by Louis as Louis is by him. 

And Louis messed them up. He really messed it all up.

“Fuck, says you,” Louis groans, and then he’s a bit overwhelmed by his thoughts again and need to block them out, makes him grip him harder, fuck him faster. Roughly. Relentlessly. God, just what he needed. 

Harry throws his head back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, my god. You’ve gotten better at that, fuck.”

“Yeah? That’s good?” Louis asks, cocky, but breathless himself.

His hand runs over his chest, over the crosses, the lucky number, over the butterfly below his rib cage that goes with his own large swirly quote across his chest, or the skull and crossbones on his wrist with the deck of cards symbols. Louis wants to grind his cock against that stupid fucking butterfly. 

“Yeah, god, bet you get all the boys’ attention now, don’t you.” Louis doesn’t quite know why that would be on the top of Harry’s mind, but, apparently. 

Harry leans down over him again, trying to get the angle to the absolute perfect one, and Louis’ hands slide to his ass again. He parts his cheeks, fucking up into him, so close to his sweet spot but deliberately missing because he wants Harry to _beg_.

“Jealous boy,” Louis mutters into his ear, tutting him. He kisses his neck, nibbling on the skin. “Only want you anyway.” 

Harry’s panting against his skin, shrill and high in between his broken sobs. ” _Louis-_ ”

”Want you all the time,” Louis murmurs on, shifts his hips to Harry’s request, but so lost in the heat of the moment. ”Want you every second, want you just like this every single fucking night.”

Then.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Harry moans, and Louis swears he nearly _explodes_ as he shudders all over, clenching around him as Louis’ cock goes plunging into his prostate. “Right - oh, fuck, there - Louis, _there_ ”, he chokes out, nearly whimpering, then his arm straining on the headboard betrays him, falls to lean right by Louis’ head instead, where he helplessly grabs for his hair and holds it, holds it.

“I’m close”, Louis whispers back, hot breath against his neck. But he keeps thrusting hard into him, so close he could just _die_ \- he’s dizzy, the edges of his world whiting out, and all he can think, feel and see is Harry, Harry, Harry. 

And Harry grinds up against him, cock leaking over Louis’ tummy like hard candy starting to drip and it might just make him lose the spot again, but it’s like he can’t help it, because they do a lot of things they can’t help don’t they. And _fuck_ , it’s worth it, because only a few seconds later he comes… 

And he’s so, so ridiculously gorgeous. 

Like every time before, seeing that beautiful face twisted with pleasure and being dazed beyond return, Louis knows he’s just about staring at him like he hung the fucking moon all the way through it, just like how Harry can be looking at him sometimes too. 

Louis grunts something back, ruts faster. ” _Babe_ ,” he breathes, doesn’t know what else to say, then buries himself deep inside him and _releases_. 

He kind of can’t believe half the embarrassing high-strung and whining noises that leave him and get buried into Harry’s neck. Hand clutching his hair, the beautiful curls on this beautiful boy. He feels the warmth pool in the condom as he pulls out. 

They both catch their breaths, sticky and gross but feeling amazing all the same. So amazing.

Harry rolls off of him, staring up at the ceiling. Both their chests are still heaving, and when he glances down his own, the ribbons of cum are littering his swirly quote almost expertly, in his very own opinion. It mesmerizes him. It’s almost as if Harry was his.

He snaps out of it.

“Need a smoke”, he announces.

He shuffles up in the bed, against the headboard, hisses as the cold hits his back. His hair is a mess; he doesn’t even have to feel it with his hands to know it. But he feels good. He got his temporary fix, after all, didn’t he now. He got what he came for even if he didn’t know at first that this was what he always longed for.

“You should quit.”

Harry leans over on his side. His hair still falls beautifully over his delicate shoulders, over the black ink tattoos and out of his face, gleaming and glassy-eyed. 

Louis wishes he knew how to quit _him_.

“Alright”, he murmurs, leaning closer to him. “I’ll quit now.”

Harry’s eyes actually light up. “Yeah?”

He smiles. “No.” 

Harry rolls his eyes but smiles, hits him lazily with a pillow. Louis grabs it and throws it into his face, Harry’s response merely a weak kitten-yell. 

Louis could never survive with the thought of Harry being loving like this with someone else.

So to forget about it, like all other things he refuses to deal with, he pushes on his shoulder. “Go on, then, take the shower.”

Harry groans but gets up, proudly naked. But he turns around to him again. “You know you’re _my_ guest, don’t you?”

Louis is not staring at him. Definitely not. He swallows and glues his eyes to the wall behind him, because fuck. _Fuck._ “Excuses.” He waves him off. “Filthy boy. Hurry up, now. Chop, chop.”

Harry scoffs, then finally leaves, calls something over his shoulder about using the balcony for his smoke, tissues in the top drawer and to kindly not steal anything please and thank you.

Louis actually stays in bed for a while. It’s cozy. Big and warm. 

And smells like Harry.

_Home_ , he thinks, rather sadly. It feels like home. 

Didn’t he always, though?

 

 

then

It reminds him of those times some year ago, when they’d lie on the bed beside each other, on top of each other, wrapped in each other. A movie paused in the end credits on Louis’ laptop, maybe. Some soft sunlight sifting through the blinds. Quiet, calm, much like how it is now. 

Harry’s breathing is slowing down and Louis’ not quite sure how to make him get up and leave before his family gets home. Because even if it’s similar to those old times, it’s not the same. Those were days when this wasn’t weird, because cuddling is just an essential part of friendship, isn’t it? Nothing weird about putting your head on the other’s shoulder. Nothing weird about having your leg slung over their waist. 

It gets weird when you fall in love with them. Weirder when you vaguely know they like you back. 

Worse when you get scared and fuck everything up. 

And now Harry’s got tangled up hair, love bites on his neck like on Louis’ own. He’s lying spent on top of him, warm and real, because now Louis knows what he sounds like when he comes. 

In all his happiness, he feels sad. 

Because he knows he could have had Harry once. Had he taken the chance, if he’d given him his heart when Harry offered his own, maybe this wouldn’t have to happen in secret. It would have happened earlier. Hell, it could be a daily occurance. 

But it doesn’t matter. It’s not like that anymore.

Those were days when he had the whole world offered to him, and he threw it all away for fear of love.

He tucks a curly strand of hair neatly behind Harry’s ear, and he sighs at the clock, willing it to stop. Just a few more minutes can’t hurt. His family must still think they’re just cuddly friends anyway. They don’t even know half his shit. 

He shuts his eyes, feels Harry’s heart beat with his own. He knows he’ll wake up alone. He knows he’ll be cold and weighed with the loss of the warmth. 

And like every other night, he swears to himself he’s over him _for real_ this time.

 

 

_now_

And like every other night, he knows it’s just the denial talking. 

He’ll never be fucking over him. 

And god, that’s fine too. It’s fine! After a smoke and a shower (in that actual order so Harry won't complain about the stench), at least he can listen to Harry’s breathing as it slows down for sleep, keep his arm secure around his shoulder. He can pretend like this is where he belongs for just another night. 

Louis’ just been so awfully homesick like that.

 

 

He doesn’t leave when he wakes up. He doesn’t want to. 

When Harry stirs awake a half hour later he’s got a pink pillow mark running down his right cheek and Louis’ balancing a tray of deliverood breakfast on his side of the bed. Harry’s eyes are big, green as he takes in the sight, lips plump and red and o-shaped, and Louis’ absolutely breathless.

He’s also smiling, and oh, man, how long ago since he actually smiled? How long ago since he slept a full night through? Since he didn’t wake up feeling cold? 

”Morning,” he murmurs, own voice raspy. He’s very excited for some tea to fix this matter. 

Harry blinks at the tray, at the pancakes and the paper bag with croissants, the tea cup that’s his own which has been prepared just how he likes it because Louis remembers stupid shit like that. 

Then Harry has to rub his eye with a stubborn knuckle, scratch around his hair for a second. ”What’s this?” he mumbles instead, and sounds neither excited or disappointed. 

”Nutrition,” Louis replies, because, obviously. ”Have a croissant.”

Harry looks up at him with a strange kind of hurt in his eyes. ”I didn’t think you’d still be here.” He’s really still trying to process this. Frankly, so is Louis. ”I mean, that’s not- um, how long are you, uh. How long will you stay?”

Louis cocks an eyebrow as he breaks the eye contact, reaches forward for a croissant himself. Tries forcibly to not think about the fact Harry is naked right in front of him under the duvet he’s got bunched around his waist. ”In a hurry?” he quips, putting the baked good to his mouth with a loud crunch. 

Harry’s pulling a different kind of frog face. Astonished, confused, but maybe mostly _offended_. ”Why are you-” He mouths for more words but all that comes out is the motions like a distressed fish on land. ” _No,_ but maybe _you_ should be?” 

Louis doesn’t say anything, avoids the creeping discomfort in his chest. Harry realises what he just said and bites his lip as if to take it back, then he just shakes his head. 

”I can’t deal with this,” he breathes eventually. ”Fuck.”

Louis shrugs a shoulder, eyeing down his croissant. ”Neither can I.” It’s just so interesting to look at that he keeps his eyes there, promptly avoids Harry’s stare. ”I really can’t deal with any of this shit,” he continues, because if Harry’s going to fight, he can fight harder. He can bite like a bulldog and not let it go. ”For months I haven’t been able to deal with it but did it all anyway. But for once I’m not the one leaving, am I, and I didn’t wake up alone. And now you’re just as pissed at that too. Which is just fucking great, in my personal opinion, that you’re always pissed at anything I think to do.”

Harry’s brow seems to just crease more, eyes growing more wild. ”You think this is a _favour_?” he exclaims, but his voice is trembling all along. He grows a little taller though. ”You think you can just decide to stay, to lay back all of a sudden? And you expect that I want you to? Don’t you know _I_ actually _wanted_ to wake up alone, on the _fucking contrary?_ ” 

It takes all in Louis to not flinch when he curses, because when Harry does it, he knows it carries weight. He’s really mad at Louis staying, like genuinely, because Louis usually fucks off like a little coward. 

But that’s not the whole truth, is it? Isn’t Louis here in the first place for a reason?

Harry sits back down. His hands are on his thighs, clawing at his skin. ”Your excuses aren’t welcome,” he adds, voice gruff, ”in case you don’t have a brain to figure that out for yourself.”

Louis stills, eyes set on a little flower on the patterned bedspread. He promptly puts the croissant down. ”Well.” He brushes his lap off - clad in boxer briefs, mind you - and clears his throat. ”I think you want me to. But I admire the self respect.”

Before Harry can thunder on about what an idiot Louis is and to get out of his room, he stands up off the bed. 

”I’m clearly lacking it meself, because here I go trying to get you back.” He grabs his jeans off the floor, tries to jump into them while ignoring the eyes burning the back of his neck. ”Again, yeah, I know. I know, it’s like usual with me. But I thought you wanted me to stick around. I did, so, sorry that’s- that that’s such a fucked up thought, then. Didn’t seem too far-fetched, considering, you know.” He huffs as he reaches for his t-shirt. ”You said you missed me, and cared to actually invite me here… You said you wanted to meet up, for weeks, and you approached me, so I thought- Well, but fuck me, right?” He laughs dryly. ”Fucking fuck me and my stupid fucking thoughts, totally making shit up, because it’s not like we both still really _love_ each other, huh?” His entire body washes over with pain when the words slip his lips. ”It’s not like, I spend most nights wide awake, because I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s not like I really miss you every single day, every _second_ still hurts without you. It’s not like— not like I’m _in love with you_ , or any-fucking-thing like that.”

He turns around and faces him then, throws his arms out hopelessly. 

”Welp.” They slap back against the sides of his thighs. ”Leaving, then.”

Harry’s eyes are rimmed with tears. 

Louis grits his teeth. Stupid fucking thoughts is sure one thing; stupid fucking words is another. He’s had a few. A few too many. 

He figured it out.

It clenches his chest to see, is the thing. There had been times when Louis actually almost wanted to see Harry cry, just to see if he still cared, you know, and just how much. This passes the test. That’s all he ever needed to know. 

Doesn’t mean he wanted it to happen _now_ though. 

”I didn’t-”

”No,” Harry interrupts. He laughs joylessly as he wipes at his eye. ”That’s just- Wow.”

It’s that relatable, is it? Louis had a hunch. Or he was starting to accept that he did, anyways. 

He shoves his hands down his pockets awkwardly. That was that, then. The tantrum nobody asked for. The unravelling of all stuff and things. He just said it out loud, dammit. What he’s been thinking about for years. 

The whole situation suddenly explained, because Louis knows Harry doesn’t really want him to go. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s too keen on him staying either; he just doesn’t want to hear Louis promise to, and then piss off, just when Harry’s got his hopes up. And then he’ll be back just when he’d be beginning to get himself back together. Insert relevant Dolly Parton lyrics. 

Like a storm he comes, and then he’s gone. Like a storm he just leaves behind broken pieces. A broken home. 

Louis relates. He’s had a similar person like that in his life. 

But what makes it hurt is how much he cares. How much he wants to be with him but can’t. It’s not Harry being a bad person; Louis isn’t either. It’s just how they know they can’t be together even when they want to so badly. He’s ruined his life just by not being his. 

And Harry’s just so beautiful right now. Not because he’s sat dabbing his eyes of tears; Louis’ not _actually_ a heartless sociopath, do we repeat it once more for the back row? It’s just. 

Just something about that sleep-messy hair, right? That pillow mark slowly fading. The way the sunlight falls on his tan shoulders, his green eyes shifting in gold, grey, blue. That entire guardian fucking angel look he’s got going on as a constant. 

Something about him. There’s just something about him. 

”I’ll leave now, if you want,” Louis points out quietly, still looking at his body, his tattoos. The collarbones he’s stained in marks from his lips like red wine. ”But to be honest I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with a croissant that’s got a bite mark in it.”

Harry actually smiles, even though it’s weak. He shakes his head and silently waves him back over. 

Louis sits down on the bed again, twiddling his fingers in his lap. ”It’s not a favour,” he murmurs, in response to Harry’s earlier retorts. Harry sniffles, or maybe it’s a laugh. ”I just want to be with you right now, if that’s alright.”

Harry sighs, closes his eyes and nods. Through the tears there’s a bigger smile growing on his face. ”Yeah. Sorry, just-”

” _I’m_ sorry,” Louis corrects, and Harry looks at him. Maybe they’re not friends, they aren’t - but, maybe that just means they’re... _more_ than that. ”I shouldn’t have said that shit, real spur of the moment, but I did mean every word. I miss you every single day we’re not together. Now can you please have a fucking waffle?”

He’s loved him since he was 18. 

”I’m sorry too, you know,” Harry says, peeking cautiously into the paper bag. ”You did say it exactly how it is. I mean-” He flushes. ”I hope, uh. That-”

”Yeah,” Louis’ quick to assure, because let’s not use the mighty L-word more than once in a sitting; someone (Louis) might just collapse. ”I feel the same. I always felt the same.”

Harry’s eyes go big for a second, like he just got the best news in the world. Or it’s just how he’d look at Louis before things went so bad. Louis’ stomach twists like a wet rag. It sounds gross but quite frankly, he might just be experiencing butterflies for the first time in a long time. 

Then Harry’s back to frowning, an adorable frog prince. ”Then why did you never…” he starts. ”I mean, you never said. You always turned me down?”

Louis looks at him for a moment, then gives an obvious nod to the waffles. Harry smiles when he rolls his eyes. 

He lifts his fork high, just for show, just posing with it as he’s side-eyeing Louis. Louis pokes his side with a grin - this absolute nutter, can’t believe him half the time - so that he bends himself double and guffaws. 

If they were friends, maybe they’d be reminiscing when they were younger and had tickle fights on a daily. 

But they’re not friends. They really are so much more than just friends. 

So when Harry’s straightened himself back out, Louis cups his face and presses their lips together softly. Harry sighs into the kiss. Louis feels, in a similar fashion, all stress dissolving- or, no.

It’s more that when he breathes out, Harry breathes him back in. 

When Harry breathes out, Louis lifts all his burdens from upon his shoulders. He accepts his faults and issues. Supports him, even. And vice versa. They always did. They always have each other. 

”I’ll tell you another time,” Louis whispers when they part, to Harry’s closed eyes and still parted lips. ”Your tea’s going cold.” 

Harry smiles and Louis does as well. He presses their lips together for another chaste kiss. ”Can’t you tell me while I have it?”

”Then how am I supposed to have mine?”

Harry sighs, takes his tea and mouths at it. Louis knows his favourites haven’t changed, but Harry makes no indication to show he’s ordered it perfectly. This is fine because he already knows very well he’s got a talent for tea. But let’s not get cocky. 

How does he tell him he’s been in love with him for six years without ever really stopping or moving on? 

He feels so guilty for the time lost. For the past six years, they could have shared every morning with breakfast in bed, sleepy kisses and perfect tea. They could have been in love. They were in love. 

Oh god, they really were in love, and then they were just strangers. 

He takes his own tea, bitter black with that hint of milky sweetness. ”Do you have a laptop with you?” he asks suddenly. 

Harry’s eyes light up. ”I do…”

Do tell where this is going. Louis dons a rather mischievous grin on his face, half hidden behind his cup. ”But can we watch something else than Notting Hill?”

If they were a TV show, this is when the audience would emit a long _awww_. Old ladies dabbing away tears, the whole lot throwing a mighty applause. Because this is what they should have been doing for the past six years. These and other things that made it the time of their lives. 

And, if they were a movie, Harry would be the right guy. And Louis would be the best friend, he’d fall in love with—

Do we go ahead and quote some more old banger songs while we’re at it? Hannah Montana is _quaking_. 

”What do you want then?” Harry asks, smug now. He puts his tea cup away and reaches for Louis’ left wrist. ” _Papillon_?”

Louis smirks, pushes at Harry’s butterfly in victory, the deck of cards symbols and the skull and crossbones design with Harry’s altogether matching those of the main character in the movie. A pun of _to steal_ , it was, because he character was a criminal, and it’s the same as _to fly_ in French. 

Because, stealing hearts, and stuff, maybe a subliminal message even to their own minds in deep denial. And also, if they could fly, whenever they were away, they’d be coming right back home to each other. 

”Isn’t that movie too rough for you?” Louis teases, and Harry grins and tries to slap his hand away. 

Louis pushes him forward instead and ends up on top of him, both grinning so wide their lips barely even form a proper kiss. 

Ah yes, there’s a few of them kisses. The happiest kind of kisses. 

”Lou,” Harry mumbles against his lips, and Louis hums. ”The _film._ ”

”I’m content here,” Louis replies, splaying his hand across Harry’s chest. Harry’s got his arm thrown over his back so he’s clearly not complaining. ”Reckon I could make room in my _incredibly busy schedule_ to stay like this for a few hours.”

Harry mutters something, or maybe it’s a half-hearted moan. It’s, well, it’s something that only makes Louis press closer to him. 

Then his hand comes travelling down the small of Louis’ back. It’s so softly it makes him shiver, the tips of his fingers ghosting down his skin, drawing feather-light shapes like he’s leaving his signature over Louis’ body in their wake. 

His finger pushes past the waistband his boxers, his middle one sliding down his crack, and oh, Louis almost lets the warmth of arousal wash over him. Almost closes his eyes and just melts into it—

He stirs into sitting position, almost spilling the tea. ”Your waffles have officially gone cold,” he announces, fake scolding in his voice. ”I’m getting your fucking laptop myself and I’ll hope for your own good you’ll have eaten them all when I get back on this bed.”

Harry’s still lying down, smirking. His arms are slung over his head now, hair splayed out on the white pillow like in a painting. ”Will you spank me if I don’t?”

Louis can ignore the stirring in his pants, yes he can. ”I will,” he says simply, and gets off the bed. He starts digging around Harry’s bags and Harry sighs, sits up and starts poking around his waffles with his fork. 

Louis deliberately takes his merry time and when he’s back and sits down, Harry hasn't only wiggled into a pair of underwear at last but also eaten his whole plate, fork hovering over Louis’ with a childishly innocent expression. 

Louis is so fucking in love with him. 

”You little shit,” he grins, plops the laptop down in front of him. ”Password, please and thanks.”

” _Louisheartsharry91_ ,” Harry muses, still teasing, and is clearly typing in something else so Louis doesn’t actually suffocate right then and there, as if this is even a secret anymore. He twists it back to him. ” _Harryheartslouisass69_.”

”Well _someone’s_ in a mood all of a sudden,” Louis mutters, opening the right tab. ”Louis hearts Harry’s ass too. Louis hearts sixty-nineing.”

Harry taps open the film as Louis starts forking up waffle (it’s miserably on the low-end of lukewarm). Harry puts the laptop down and helps himself to his croissant. ”Harry hearts croissants.”

They’re just saying random words at this point. Yet it makes so much sense?

He props his pillow up against the headboard and leans against it next to Louis. It takes all in Louis not to wrap his arm around him like he used to. He wonders if Harry’s resisting cuddling up to him too. 

”Remember-” Louis starts, fork stopping mid-air as he realises it’s a stupid question. It’s too late now. ”Remember when we, uh. When I asked if you’d done it before?”

He takes another bite, as if this is just a completely normal conversation. 

”Done what?” Harry drawls. ”This? Breakfast in bed?”

”Been with a guy.”

Harry stops mid-crunch. Now that’s awkward. ”Hm.” He chews thoughtfully, doesn’t elaborate. 

Stupid question. Such a stupid question, but now it’s already out there. God knows he’s been thinking about it for _years_. 

”When- I mean. Was it alright?” He’s so thankful he can look at the screen and not at Harry. They’re walking through the prison on there, nothing particularly interesting to see. ”Not like you have to detail the entire thing, just.”

”Oh, no, course. I was just, you know. Eager.” The sun is warming Louis’ skin, contrasts with the cold sensation inside. He doesn’t really want to think about Harry with anybody else. ”Wanted to get it over with. Practice.”

Louis nods intelligently. ”The only thing you can do with a virginity is lose it.”

”Right.” He traces a pattern in the duvet absently. ”I, uh. I always wished it was you.”

Fuck off. No way. 

Oh my god. 

Louis clears his throat, blinking, maybe a little shocked. ”You _wha’?_ ”

”Uh, yeah. I don’t know.” Harry’s mumbling. He’s _flustered_. ”I always imagined it would be you. Sorry, that’s a little-”

”No,” Louis interrupts, puts his hand over his wrist to stop him. Looks at that instead. ”Me too. I mean, I never- you were my first, the first guy, but I mean…”

Harry’s staring at his hand, too, he can tell. ”Oh.”

He squeezes once. ”And then I never wanted it to be anyone else. So there… wasn’t any.”

Harry hesitates. Ponders. Then he twists his hand, lets Louis’ fingertips brush the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist instead. ”You’re serious.”

”Deadass.” He chances a glance at Harry; now he’s smiling faintly. ”And you are too?”

He nods. ”Fuck yes.”

Louis could kiss him. He doesn’t, just moves his hand up to let their fingers intertwine. 

This shouldn’t be romantic. They’re watching a prison movie on an unmade bed, a tray with soggy waffles and a half-eaten croissant on it, dotted with sticky, spilled tea. 

Can’t explain that to love, though. Louis is having all of them butterflies. Biology can gladly try to explain. 

Actually, biology can fuck right off. Everything can. He’s in love with Harry and Harry’s in love with him, and that’s just how it’s meant to be. 

”Is it going to be you and me now?” Harry asks him then, and Louis realises this is the relationship question. The big one, slightly twisted and turned. The one when you cross yes or no on the be my bf-note, if we're talking boyfriend, and not just best friend. 

If they were like seven, that is. They’re not seven. Not even 18. They’re 23 and 24, and Louis has never been in love with anyone else but Harry. He’s also fairly fucking certain Harry can second that statement about himself now. 

He sort of just chuckles. ”I think it always was.”

Then it’s Harry that kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIT! MAYBE HE MISSED HIM!?!?!!?
> 
> if you're emotionally ready there's second coming chapter sometime oi oi and here’s [the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/resurrectdead/playlist/06Ah72tTEVf2CHBVyL8ARH?si=9ekm-dc3TcuRGlJZ_TGXEw) again (but I lowkey feel like I could have just put this town on it 28 times instead wtf). talk to me about louis' heartache on artxghoul.tumblr.com ;:~)


	2. sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe he should drink some more. This obviously always solves things._   
>  _Like their first fight..._

Harry has been called many things. Kind, well-spoken, talented, calm. Variations of adjectives to point out his sense of fashion, good or not. 

Personally, he knows _jealous_ is definitely his strongest trait. 

Louis’ alone in the corner when Harry walks into the party, and even though his tired blue eyes are on the phone connected to the aux cord, scrolling through the Spotify playlist as The Script’s _For the First Time_ is playing loudly and thumping against the walls, it’s as if Harry’s emitting some sort of warning-like noise louder than this when he steps over the doorstep (which would have to be a siren or something and he’s fairly sure the only sound he’s making is his poor excuse for heels on his chelsea boots tapping against the wooden floor), because Louis’ eyes are already on him when Harry’s eyes finally adjust and finds him in the dark. 

Well, maybe it’s like he’s emitting some sort of light then, something shining to make him so easily found in the dim lights of the room. But it’s not exactly like Louis’ squinting at him either. His eyes are big where he’s looking up under his eyelashes, black T-shirt putting his heavily tattooed forearms on full display, and Harry’s stomach twists. 

The eye contact is so strong, see. Like electricity in the air as Louis stares past all the people right at him, at his sheer, flowy, rose-embroided black shirt of choice, the ripped black jeans. It’s not that big a deal. He only spent slightly too long putting it together to maybe hopefully catch a certain little someone’s attention tonight. 

But, Louis. 

Louis looks _gorgeous_ , like he usually does, so effortlessly. He saw him at home only a good hour or so ago, before he left without him because he got mad Harry didn’t know what to put on. And still. Still it’s like his knees could give in underneath him when he looks at him like that, looking like he does; like his breath leaves his lungs and he feels his heartbeat in his ears, a pressure on his throat, heart like a bloody _steel hammer_ against his ribs, but he can’t look away. He can’t get enough of him. 

He just got here and he already feels wasted. 

It’s Lucas that pulls him to the side first, and Harry immediately smiles at him, thankful to be tugged out of the magnetic bubble. At least he can _breathe_. ”Harry!”

”Hey,” he greets back, does that little handshake that’s really just a weird high-five. Maybe other 20-year-olds know how to do this but he’s still pretty clueless about that whole thing. ”How are you?”

”Great, great,” he smiles back, draws a hand through his brunet hair then throws a thumb up to gesture behind himself. ”You wanna have some wine or something?”

Harry does indeed. He throws a glance back at Louis, and he looks tense, watching them closely. Which is. Extremely interesting. A study in how friends definitely don’t usually act after they just yelled at you and stormed off without you. Friends that happen to have been doing kind of poorly to fit the role lately. 

Harry wonders wildly if he had any impact in why he’s styled his hair to be pushed away from his face, like the little notice he left for him when they were lying drunk on the floor the other week and Harry said he should have it that way, brushing it away and touching him, because he wanted to. He wonders if the fact there’s a guy in front of him with similar hairstyle is the reason behind why Louis looks a little uptight all of a sudden. He probably doesn’t even know who Lucas is. This probably makes him mad. 

Probably not. Probably not related, too far-fetched. 

Louis wouldn’t be so affected. 

”Course,” Harry answers, looking back to his friend, ”thank you.”

He’s handed a glass and the song switches to yet another one he knows too well. _Heart Out_ by The 1975, another one he keeps in his Favourites-playlist. Actually, it’s one of those…

One of those he and Louis have in common. A mutual favourite. 

They have a lot in common, he thinks. Like taste in music, or taste in a lot of things, really. Like the jealousy trait thing, possibly, or maybe he’s just being delusional. 

But oh, it’s all so fascinating, right now. Harry can’t help but smile into his glass as he mouths at it, feels hyper-aware of Louis, Louis in his peripheral vision. Louis queuing up their favourite songs before Harry had even arrived, even though he could have sworn he was pissed off at him; Louis in tight jeans and messy hair and leaning against the wall, head back, neck exposed but still watching him, like.

Like Harry could just go over there and press his body against him, put his lips on his neck, hands on his hips, if only he’d let him. 

He’s not had nearly enough to drink to be thinking these thoughts. He can’t, he absolutely can’t and he shouldn’t, wouldn’t; they’re _just friends_ and that’s _so wrong_. Louis might have had enough to drink, though, which is not good. Not a good combo. Harry’s going to have make an active decision to keep his hands to himself, maybe stay right here with Lucas and Oliver and the rest of the lot because at least these are friends he doesn’t go daydreaming about kissing constantly. 

Oh, god, if only he’d let him touch him. 

There’s been moments when he’s been close to, when the self control completely betrayed him and he almost slipped up. When they were drunk together on the floor, for one. That time he almost leaned forward, almost just went for it and _kissed_ him, _finally_ , then realised what the hell he was doing and tried to steer the conversation off, speaking about _The Beatles_ of all things. 

Unfortunately didn’t forget that one drunken memory, and it’ll definitely haunt him forever as the most embarrassing and devastating seconds of his life. When he almost kissed his crush who just happens to be his best friend which makes it, by all laws of social norms, probably illegal or something. He knows it’s so wrong that he can’t move on; maybe some years in moral-prison could make him forget.

He thought Louis wanted it too, though. Once. Once when they met up after this and it seemed almost like it was about to happen. Like maybe all Harry’s wanted for the past months was finally about to become reality, lying in bed together, so close, studying and books forgotten for just a moment and it was like Louis was almost about to kiss him first - but how could he have been so stupid? Of course Louis doesn’t feel the same. He shouldn’t force him to try. 

_’Why don’t you figure my heart out?’_ Matty Healy wails from the speakers, hitting all too close to home. 

When he looks back to the corner again, Louis’ gone. 

Harry spins around so quickly he almost spills his drink, scans the entire room but can’t seem to find the familiar hedgehog-hairdo. He takes a last sip of the drink before he puts it down on a table, thinks vaguely of the round, red stain it might leave on the wooden surface but thinks there’s definitely more important things he needs to think about outside of this room. 

He walks out through the door next to where Louis was just standing, finds himself in a corridor. A short, black-clad, stumbling figure falls through a door-opening at the end, and Harry follows him over the moonlight shining through the windows like pale paint splashes on the dark rug. He still hears the music faintly, people talking, but out here, they’re all alone. 

He walks into the bathroom just in time to see Louis fall to his knees like a rag doll, bending himself in half over the toilet and throwing up a good half of all alcohol he’s consumed only since Harry got there. 

Harry winces, hesitates, instincts telling him to turn right on his heel and leave. Then he stills. Then he crouches next to him. 

He carefully puts his hand on his back, watches for Louis’ reaction, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stops, listens. 

Then emits what sounds closest to a broken sob. 

”It’s okay,” Harry murmurs, but he doesn’t know what is exactly. He’s pretty sure nothing is okay. He strokes up and down Louis’ warm back, feels kind of like he shouldn’t, but he loves just feeling his body whatever the situation, apparently. Apparently anything Louis-related is always like Heaven for him. ”You’re okay.”

“Harry,” Louis starts, or maybe just states, because it’s cut off with another sob and no other words are spoken.

He retches again, and Harry turns his face away but keeps rubbing circles, trying so hard to console. Louis isn’t usually such an irresponsible drinker, he can’t believe he’s had so much to make him so sick. It’s been evident before he has some demons, though, whatever they are. He just hopes he didn’t drink just to try and drown them.

Louis sniffles, and Harry would offer him a glass of water or something but he can’t seem to force himself to move. He can’t look away. 

He cautiously moves his hand forward, brushing the fringe from Louis’ hot forehead. He ghosts his fingertips along his temple, tucks hair behind his ear, smiles weakly. He caresses him slowly down cheek, the soft stubble, down his neck until he meets the collar of his shirt and then his arm falls back to his side, heart beating hard in his chest. 

Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe he should go. 

He’s just so in love with him. 

Louis is sitting up more now, can see his closed eyes with the angelic eyelashes fanning out and Harry thinks for a moment he’s leaned into his touch. This is impossible, for your information, because Louis obviously doesn’t feel the same for him and it’s been made very clear on several occasions. Sometimes he feels like Louis might just hate him. 

And sometimes Harry thinks he might hate him too. Hates him for making him feel this way, hates him for being so beautiful, and so kind, so good for him, so perfect. He hates him for not being his, and that’s so fucking selfish of him it makes his heart wrench. 

He shouldn’t be taking advantage of him just because he’s drunk. He feels sick of himself for thinking that this would be okay. But he’s just trying to comfort him. He’s just being a friend. 

Right?

He ends up sitting on the tile floor with him for an entire hour. Maybe it’s even the rest of the night; he’s not exactly keeping track of time, and the moon still shines as bright outside. He rubs his back, whispers little reassurances, holds his hair back as he sits listening to the music he queued up in the distance. The Killers and Arctic Monkeys and Ed Sheeran. _Change Your Mind_ and _I Wanna Be Yours_ and _Friends_. 

It almost makes Harry angry when he listens for the lyrics. It’s like Louis’ been doing it on purpose. 

Maybe he does it to piss him off, then; maybe he knows. Maybe knows Harry’s feelings, knows that he has feelings _for him_ and is taking the piss. 

Well. He can’t help it. Sometimes he thinks stupidly he’s been in love with Louis since the first moment he saw him outside the classroom, when he just had to go up and talk to him. It’s like an unavoidable force of nature. 

But they’re just friends. He can still feel so sorry about that. 

Love ruins friendships, is the thing; he’s seen it happen. People who try to exit the friendzone because their feelings are eating them alive but instead scares the person off. And love and hate are so closely tied together. It’s like you can be head over heels in love but it’s so easy to tip over to the other side. That scares him so incredibly much.

He eventually helps Louis to his feet, helps him to a cup of water and mouthwash he digs out of the cupboard then steadies him with his arm around his waist, Louis’ arm around his shoulders. He tries so very hard to not give in to how he’s shifting his entire weight against him, to not turn and just embrace him, or something - he doesn’t even know. Would they just embrace? Would they even do that?

It should be extremely unattractive, this whole ordeal, but instead all he can think is _warmth_. _Boy_. _Louis, Louis, Louis_ , soft against his side, warm and real. He can’t stop picturing his lips on him, can’t stop picturing being able to touch him, if he was his, if only he felt the same.

He needs to. He knows he needs to stop, because he can’t handle being turned down anymore. He’s had enough heartache to last a lifetime. 

He walks him out into the living room, Louis’ head on his shoulder and his mouth against his collarbones, whispering things Harry wishes he could make out. He’s just drunk and it’s probably just nonsense, but deep within himself he’s still hopelessly hoping for Louis to confess his love for him. Like maybe it’s just a secret he’s afraid to let out. 

It’s not going to happen so he can obviously stop waiting. 

He helps him down into the now-empty sofa, lifts his legs up as Louis cuddles into it contently. He feels heartless leaving him there but he can’t exactly carry him all the way home, because 1: yes Harry’s been working out and lifting, very much so, but not enough to carry a grown man, and 2: his mum might have a heart attack. Let’s avoid such probabilities when he’s not even perfectly sober himself. 

Louis’ eyes flutter open, lips rounded, trying to focus and think of what to say. ”Come here,” he mumbles then, sounding childishly pleading. 

Harry hears it with a complimentary pang of pain. 

He shakes his head, smiling. ”You can sleep,” he murmurs, rubbing his shoulder, but oh god how he wants to just lie down and let Louis wrap his arms around him. ”You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

And probably won’t remember this, is the thing. Probably won’t remember how miserable he’s making Harry’s life. 

”Don’t go.” Louis frowns, grumpy. ”Wanna cuddle.”

He turns over, tapping over himself searching for a blanket. Harry finds one thrown over the backrest and he drapes it over him, tucks him in as Louis sighs contently. 

He watches him for a moment, hands tucked under his face as he drifts off to sleep, mumbling something drunkenly to himself. And Harry wishes he didn’t only get like this with him when he’s plastered. He wishes he was more to him than a cheat day in a diet plan. 

Harry swallows all his feelings down with the knot in his throat, turns around and sees his wine glass still on the table. Probably a bad idea. Downs it anyway, then catches a bus back home, falls asleep on a pillow wet from tears. 

They don’t talk about that night until years later. 

“This is going to sound stupid,” Louis says, stabbing his cereal with his spoon (which is not a good method for stabbing something), “but were you ever trying to get me, like. Jealous? On purpose.”

Harry smiles into his phone, opposite him at the breakfast table. The sun is sifting through the window, early spring weather breaking through the clouds outside like the buds on flowers, the leaves on the maple trees. Manchester has its good days sometimes too. Maybe you just have to take a moment to notice them. 

He puts his phone down to pour himself another glass of orange juice, still smiling easily. “When, exactly?” he asks, nonchalant.

Louis levels at him. “Several times,” he says flatly. “Extremely many. Should I specify?”

Harry bumps his shin with a socked foot under the table. He sips his drink before he continues, Louis impatiently stirring his tea. “There were… moments,” he drawls, thinking about the pictures he’d post on social media with other people just to try to in fact make Louis jealous, the times he hung out with other guys and all he could think and talk about was him, ”when I thought I kind of maybe could, like. Catch your attention.”

“You fucker,” Louis gruffs. He tries to push his arm but can’t exactly reach; he still smiles largely though. Harry could probably just sit and watch him smile for the rest of his life. “That sucked so much. And then you just did it because you actually _liked_ me?”

Harry knows he’s pulling the smitten kitten face. Louis has informed him, made his heart skip several beats over how cute he found it he named this expression, and now he’s extremely aware of whenever he’s pulling it. Only when Louis says or does something he feels severely fond about. 

“I always liked you,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t think you liked _me_. I’ve told you this.”

“I know, I know, it’s just like - fuck. It’s still so weird to think about.”

Still, even though Louis’ been staying at Harry’s non-stop for almost two months now. Still, even though they’ve been dating for another three months next to that (and yes they do plan on celebrating a half of an anniversary. To their defense, six months don’t really measure up to six years, so they have a bit to catch up on).

Still, even though Louis’ clothes are in Harry’s drawer, even though he sleeps next to him every night, wakes up with him still there. It’s still weird to think about, but here they are, having breakfast opposite each other like an old married couple, because Louis is still the one. The only one. 

Harry always wanted this.

And sure, it hurts when buds burst to bloom into flowers - because why else would spring hesitate to come to life again after a long winter? It took a bit to dare, to get past the insecurities and fears and to even get used to it, to let go and _just feel_. But he’s so happy they took that step. Took it holding hands, it feels like, stepped over some sort of barrier together and now they’re in love, openly and happily. 

It’s like a love poem. He quite likes that. Might write it down in his journal. 

”It’s nice though,” Harry muses, back to checking his phone. ”Not just weird.”

”But kind of weird.”

”But _nice_ , most of all.” He pulls a fake-mad expression at him, and Louis just grins. ”You’re impossible.”

Louis shrugs, shovels up another spoonful of cereal. ”You love me.”

Harry can’t even pretend to hesitate, to ponder or tease him. ”I do love you.” 

It’s pretty crystal clear. 

Louis looks so genuinely happy to hear that; he tends to. Or maybe he’s just genuinely happy about his cereal, since that’s where his smile is directed, almost looking shy. ”Love you too,” he murmurs through the sweetest smile ever. 

Harry smiles right back at him. He looks down at his phone for another second, then twists it around for him to see. ”Look at this cute cat!”

Louis looks up again, studies it intently. He nods. ”It is a cat.”

”It’s so cute and we need a cat, Louis!”

His partner is also his best friend; that’s not so weird. It’s kind of weird how he used to think it was weird. 

Getting a cat is kind of like getting a child, he thinks wildly. Maybe that’s a lot of commitment. He kind of can’t imagine them going their different ways anytime soon, though (but maybe he should stop being constantly emotionally prepared for Louis to pop the big question with a black box in his hands). 

”We can go to a cat shelter?” Louis questions rather than states, clearly not impressed by the fluffy, beige, blue-eyed cat on Harry’s explore page, which is clearly the most adorable thing anyone has ever seen. 

”You’re a cat person,” Harry states for him, fondly pulling his phone back to look at the cute baby a little bit longer. 

”I think I’m a dog-”

”You’re in denial,” Harry says louder. ”Yes we can go to a shelter, finish your cereal!”

Louis snorts a laugh. He stands up from his chair to finally be able to reach him, and when he does he ruffles his long hair, making Harry scrunch his face up in glee. ”You’re such a nutter.”

A gentle hand cups his face and then a kiss is planted to his lips. He tries to make it linger, only to realise Louis is making it linger too. In turn it lingers for quite a long while. 

He pulls back only when his shirt is threatening to fall into his cereal, leaves a last peck on his forehead, almost on instinct, dotting the signature. 

Louis is his, he’s Louis’, and that’s a really beautiful thing. 

He’s so glad they made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look how far we've come my baby :'')
> 
> sO thank you so much to everyone who read this!!! it's kind of dear to me because uHM can you believe this was originally my first Larry fic ?? I wrote this way over a year ago and it was originally just bits of the much poetic ”harry is a love poem, waiting to be kept and adored blah blah and louis had fallen for just that” then cutting straight into the major smut scene, just based around them canonly and as in the band (how they were friends,, and then oh how shit changes they were in love now they’re strangers,,, wow I love pain) and I actually posted it in like february-17 but deleted it bc my social anxious ass was like no wait everyone hates me and it was originally called ”jealous lovers, undercover” which seemed inspirational enough but then from the dining table happened, and back to you happened, then miss you happened, and then my best friend started acting off with me lol. like everything seemed to just be adding up for me to write this, the stars aligned, it was brought back from the dead and it is what it is ;:~) (and now as I'm posting this sequel harry covered still the one just the day before and I'm frickin deceased and all that good stuff)
> 
> so shoutout to bebe rexha for becoming a good friend to louis and also writing a killer jam called fuck fake friends that ended up with me starting a new fic, which ended up getting put into this old scrapped poetic piece of bullshit- I mean, my child. I love my child! shoutout also to natalia for being a good friend to me and being nice and encouraging and proof reading this before I let it out into the wild, ahhh I heart u, u good green. thaank youu aaaaallll goodnight


End file.
